


Blood on the Ice

by toastycyborg



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, ワンパンマン | One-Punch Man
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dragonborn!Saitama, Eventual Happy Ending, Falling In Love, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, POV shifts, Past Tense, Skyrim AU, Slow Burn, Werewolf!Genos, alternate universe - skyrim, blood and mild gore, canon minor characters - Freeform, content warnings in the chapter notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-07 05:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 73,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7702978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastycyborg/pseuds/toastycyborg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dragons have returned to Skyrim, but the hero of legend is nowhere to be found. There were stories, three years ago, of his emergence and incredible strength - until, one day, he disappeared. The dragons remain, and now there are only rumours - rumours that the Dragonborn hides from his destiny, that he became a nomad to live in peace and anonymity.<br/>There are also rumours of a traveller, a powerful fire mage and conjurer who came to Skyrim in search of revenge.</p><p>
  <i>Followed by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/8447335/chapters/19353253">Shadowmarks</a></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ill Met by Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> _One Punch Man_ and _The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim_ , and all of their characters therein, are property of ONE and Bethesda Game Studios respectively. No copyright infringement is intended in this fanfiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Content warnings_ \- blood, near-death experience, mention of genocide

*

 

The city of Whiterun made for an imposing silhouette on the northern horizon.

Wild grasses whispered in Saitama’s wake, nicked at the cracked seams of his boots as he trekked toward the settlement. Twilight filled his lungs, rich and sweet, the smell of earth and trees and fauna vivid beneath a vast, pin-pricked indigo sky. He wore a small backpack, laden with firewood and axe and bedroll, survival tools clanking on every step. The chill of evening ghosted over his skin, arms and scalp left bare by his leathers, but this level of cold did not bother him. His Nordic blood was more than enough to stave off exposure.

Dragonsreach loomed ahead, towered over all. Before the city, outside the stables, Saitama could just make out the shape of a carriage and driver on the road. The roaming wind carried the snorts of the cart’s horse, the chirps and clicks of a thousand insects and the mournful cries of distant wolves. Fireflies buzzed by his ears, the crescendo to a grand symphony. Smoke rose from the city and its guard posts, windows aglow with warm light.

Saitama loved it – this hour as the sun fell to inky dark, and mismatched moons Secunda and Masser took their places in heavens awash with scarlet. The world was never quiet – but at the eve of dusk, the wilds came alive.

He dragged a hand across his brow, calves heavy and sore from a long day of hiking, and licked his lips at the thought of a hot venison stew. He could cook well enough for himself, and there were plenty of game animals around, but he had gathered enough lumber today to afford a decent meal at the inn. Luxury certainly was tempting.

An odd sound interrupted his thoughts, like a wake-up slap, misplaced in the music of twilight. From the left: a sudden, hard, muted _crunch_ , a heavy object falling in the grass. He paused with a rattle of his rucksack, hunter’s instincts flared and ready. There came another sound, metallic – a drawn sword – then a bark of harsh laughter.

“Get up, dog,” drawled a voice, gruff and male.

Saitama turned to face the sound, lips parted in mild confusion. He heard impatient feet in foliage, the shift of heavy armour, a second blade leaving its scabbard. The noises rose from over a slight hillock, their source blocked from view by a knot of fallen trees. With nothing better to do, Saitama edged up the slope to investigate.

As he neared the dead trees, a female voice pierced the air. “On your feet, so we can claim your head with honour.”

Saitama crouched at the peak of the hill, and peered out from behind the splintered trunk.

He saw a man and a woman, both muscle-bound and brutish, dressed in furs and metal and armed with gleaming silver weapons. The thugs leered over a third, robed figure. This smaller stranger knelt in the dirt between them, head down, one gloved hand clamped to his bloody side. He trembled where he hunched at the bandits’ feet, as if too drained to hold himself up for much longer, gasps thin and ragged.

With a frown, Saitama realised that the two brutes of Nords could not be bandits. Bandits did not care about _honour_.

As he watched, the victim raised his head.

Under the stranger’s hood, Saitama saw a flash of golden hair and a pale face. A wet streak of red marked his cheek, almost like war paint, curved up across the bridge of his Breton nose. Sharp, amber eyes gleamed through the dusk – not wide with fear, as Saitama expected, but pugnacious in their pained squint.

The male thug leaned over him, a leer on his lips, and yanked back the Breton’s hood. The blond swayed on his knees, head lolling limp until the man seized a fistful of his hair. The man tugged back to expose the youth’s throat, and readied his sword.

There was an eerie shriek of magic, a flash of purple, and suddenly the Breton lunged, burying a conjured dagger into the man’s thigh. The thug lurched back with a grunt, and collided with the startled woman – who was forced to duck when the mage launched a poorly aimed fireball over their heads. Saitama shielded his eyes from the brilliant burst of flame, blinked green from his vision in time to watch the woman counter-attack. She struck the mage in the face with the pommel of her greatsword, and he crumpled flat in a huff of breath. His summoned weapon glowed beside him, trailed ethereal violet steam where it had fallen.

“Mongrel cur!” the woman spat. Her whimpering cohort clutched his wounded leg with his free hand, streams of blood flowing hot through his fingers. Enraged by his condition, she raised her sword again.

Saitama intervened.

In one fluid movement, too fast to track, he vaulted the fallen tree, slid down the grassy knoll, and drove his knuckles square into the woman’s side. Her body curved like a ragdoll around his forearm, the huge blade dislodged from her grip, strands of tall grass ripped loose and flung skyward in a gust born of his fist. The woman was hurled aside, tossed limp like a skipping stone across the blustered field, and rolled to a halt several feet away.

Her partner whirled in a panic, swung wild with his sword. Saitama caught the blow in one hand: the blade did not cut his skin, but stopped dead as if he were made of stone. Before the brute could even cry for his gods, Saitama landed a punch to his armoured midriff. The man soared backward in a great arc of spit, and crashed down atop the woman.

Saitama straightened up, unfazed by the violence. Both assailants writhed weakly in place, groaning, their dropped weapons agleam in the undergrowth. Saitama sank into a squat over the smaller sword. It looked unmarred, pristine. He took the blade in hand and felt its weight, pondering how many Septims it might fetch him.

A quiet rustle met his ears, distinct over the thrum of crickets. He stood, hooked the weapon into his belt, and turned around to look upon the Breton.

The mage, propped semi-upright on one arm, stared up at him in awe. His mouth hung agape, frozen, breaths laboured. A bruise had begun to blossom where the woman had hit him, free hand still pressed to his side. The cloth of his dark robes looked wettest there, glove slick with red.

“You okay?” said Saitama.

The mage snapped his mouth shut, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in what seemed like a difficult swallow. “How did you do that?” he said. Saitama blinked, surprised by the low pitch to his words. The Breton appeared no more than twenty, yet his voice made him sound far older. The mage continued before Saitama could speak, questions tumbling fast from his lips. “Ebonyflesh? Dragonhide? Some kind of Ward? And that attack – a Telekinesis spell?”

A furrow formed in Saitama’s brow. “Yeah, no,” he said, awkward. “I’m not a mage, kid. I just hit them.”

The Breton’s awed expression grew incredulous, and he scowled at the wind-parted grass. If he had not been covered in blood, Saitama might have found the look comical. “One punch cannot wreak such devastation,” said the youth.

“Mine do,” said Saitama.

The mage opened his mouth to protest and sat up – but cut himself off with a pained wheeze. Saitama took an uncertain step forward.

“Hey,” he said, urgency stiffening his tongue. “Are you all right, kid?”

As if in answer, the Breton collapsed.

Saitama rushed forward, scooped the youth’s upper half into his lap by the shoulders. The blond yelped when jostled, eyes screwed shut and a sheen of sweat on his bone-white brow. With a steady hand, Saitama peeled back the torn cloth of his outer cloak.

The mage was dressed lightly; perhaps a traveller from the southern end of High Rock, or the deserts of Hammerfell. Too light for Skyrim, at any rate. His left arm felt odd beneath the long glove and robes, armoured and somehow misshapen, his clothes high-quality and expensive. The garments were, however, ruined, stained crimson from a deep stab wound above his hip. The cut wept even as Saitama watched, and he clapped a hand to it in alarm. The pressure seemed to jerk the blond from his agonised haze, and he clutched at Saitama’s leathers to steady himself.

“Please, tell me …” said the mage, determined through his fatigue. Saitama reached back to pull a strip of linen from his rucksack, and with it tried to stem the flow. “Tell me y-your name.”

“Saitama,” the Nord replied, perplexed. This guy was bleeding out, and he wanted to exchange pleasantries? “Hey, stop – stop moving–”

“Please …” the mage repeated, thickly, and he flinched in on himself while Saitama glanced about for help. “My name … Genos. There … there is something I have to … S-Saitama, please, accept me as your apprentice!”

Saitama peered down at the blond. His eyes had fallen closed again, but not as tight as before. The clutching fingers in his leathers had also slackened. He looked so pale. Saitama raised his gaze once more, scanned the grassland. There was no-one else around, save for the semi-conscious thugs who had attacked the blond. Whiterun was close, but would there even be a healer there? Should be, he thought; it was the capital of the Hold, after all, and the commercial heart of–

Wait.

 _Apprentice_?

The mage – Genos, right? – was clearly delirious. No wonder: he was losing blood faster than a Frostbite Spider spat venom.

“Kid,” he said, stare locked on the city ahead. Its yellowish windows flickered through the half-light of dusk, lanterns marking the cobbled path between guard towers. “Hang on, I’m gonna carry you. Whiterun’s not far. There’ll be someone there who can help you.”

Genos made a weak protest, strangled by a hiss when Saitama lifted him from the ground. “N-no, I can’t … a city, dangerous … crowded….”

Saitama held the teen side-on to his chest. Genos was tall – taller than him – but the Nord had no trouble supporting his weight. He started forward, stepped over the low stone wall into a potato patch outside the farm. “I don’t like crowds either, kid,” he said, in effort to keep the blond calm, “but I manage. You’ll be just fine.”

“No, you …” Genos pleaded, squirming feeble in his iron grasp. Saitama ignored his efforts to escape, barely noticed them. “Please, you don’t under … under….”

Genos went slack, and Saitama looked down to find the mage unconscious. His head flopped limp, veiled arms flaccid at his sides. Saitama tightened his grip, and launched into a dash.

He ignored the complaints of cold toes and tails as he passed the Khajiit camp, but swept along the stone archways and drawbridges, following the snakelike path up to the city gates. The guards stationed there made startled comments when they saw Saitama and his armful of bloody Breton, and opened the gates with haste.

Saitama had heard many things about Whiterun. He had heard of some family feud and corruption, though not as bad as in Riften. He had heard that the Nords who lived here were set in their traditional ways; and that the Skyforge was the place to go if you wanted a quality blade. And, of course, the story of how Dragonsreach had earned its name. The buildings were old but sturdy, and the fires that lined the city’s three districts never went out.

None of this interested Saitama now. He sprinted forward, between the Warmaiden’s smithy and the Drunken Huntsman, looking for anyone to ask directions. In hindsight, he realised he should have asked the guards outside. He spotted a bearded Redguard on the steps of the tavern, and doubled back to address him.

“Oi, you,” said Saitama, adjusting the youth in his arms. “I need a healer.”

The Redguard stared at him for a moment, glassy from ale, then pointed over his shoulder. “Follow the street to the marketplace,” he said. “Go left, up the steps until you see the big tree. The Temple of Kynareth is right by it. Ask for the priestess, Danica Pure-Spring.”

Saitama raced off with a quick word of thanks.

Unease struck as he navigated the streets of Whiterun. Precious little worried him these days, or even registered as an emotion – but carrying a dying, unconscious stranger was sure to quicken anyone’s pulse.

The temple seemed to be one of the fancier buildings in the Wind District. He kicked the door open and was met by the soft scent of lavender and balms, by the sound of soft chimes and running water and the moans of the injured. A handful of people lay semi-conscious on long altars around a shallow pool, its centre bold with colour like stained glass.

“Priestess!” he called, unable to remember her name. A woman clad in brown and yellow straightened away from one of the injured. She froze for a second at the sight of the arrivals, and the crimson puddle that had begun to collect at their feet, then gestured to an empty altar.

“Lie him there,” she said, accent thick. “Jenssen, tend to this one.”

A haggard-looking acolyte bustled out of the back room, and took over the care of the priestess’s first patient. Saitama strode to the free altar, and carefully laid Genos down atop it. The blond did not stir, even when Saitama brushed stray hairs from his clammy forehead. Danica nudged her fellow Nord aside, and checked the mage over.

“What happened?” she said.

Saitama faltered. “I dunno,” he said. “I found him outside town, being mugged or something. He’s hurt here–”

He pointed out the hole in the Breton’s robes. Danica inspected it, then called Jenssen over to help her. Saitama stepped back, gave them room to work. He felt self-conscious, out-of-place. A breeze from the high windows cooled his fingers, sharp and bitter, and he noticed red, sticky wetness on his hands. Uncomfortable, he wiped his palms on his hips.

A soft gasp caught his attention, and he looked up in time to watch Danica peel off Genos’s left glove.

“Oh, my….”

The mage, at some point, had lost an arm. Saitama had delved into enough Dwemer ruins to recognise the replacement limb as that of a Dwarven Sphere – minus the crossbow. It stopped just short of the shoulder joint, dull gold against the stone altar and his black-blue robes, engraved runes dancing in the candlelight. Danica reached as if to touch it, until her features hardened and she told Jenssen to go fetch some potion or other.

While the healers worked, Saitama found himself all but enchanted by Genos’s false limb. The metal was marred and scratched, battle-worn, handsome and strange. Who would think to do something like that to themselves? How did it even function? The thing had moved so naturally before, like a flesh arm would.

How bizarre.

He lost track of time, adrift in his thoughts while he admired the limb. The next thing he knew, Danica had stepped into his line of sight with a warm smile on her lips. He blinked alert, face blank.

“You have done a good thing, this day,” she said, and gave his elbow a gentle squeeze. “The gods smile upon those who help strangers.”

Saitama gave a hollow smirk. “Yeah, sure.”

Danica failed to notice his sarcasm. “You may rest here tonight, if you like,” she said. “The beds are for the sick, but I will fetch some blankets if you wish to sleep on one of the benches.”

A bench? Not exactly the height of luxury, Saitama thought, but it was cheaper than a room at the inn, and less dangerous than setting up camp outdoors. “All right, thanks.”

Danica nodded, and wandered away. Saitama stared at the Dwarven mechanism some more, then crossed to the bench in the closest corner and sat down. From this seat, a pillar blocked most of Genos from view. The mage was still terribly ashen, but his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. The healers had – quite literally – worked their magic, mended the worst of his wounds to negligible damage.

Saitama felt a quiet sense of relief for the stranger.

He owed the world nothing, yet it felt good to aid those in need.

Danica returned, arms laden with blankets in varied states of wear. Saitama accepted them with a forced smile, watchful when she gestured to the shrine on the far side of the room. “Please, feel free to pray for your friend,” she said.

Saitama hesitated. “He’s okay, right?”

“He will be fine,” she said, soothing and proud. “But, it cannot hurt to pray. Wish him a speedy recovery. The gods owe you for this deed.”

He looked away, studied the wall until the priestess left to attend her other patients. For a solid minute, Saitama considered leaving. There was little he could do here: the healers would take good care of Genos. He was a stranger, albeit an interesting one, and Saitama was not the type to demand thanks or praise from anybody. Helping people was its own reward.

Still….

He bundled most of the blankets into a makeshift pillow, shrugged out of his rucksack, and threw the thinnest sheet over himself for comfort. He would eat in the morning.

Sleep always came easy to the Nord. Dreams, on the other hand, did not. Tonight was different, and he dreamed of a pretty woman and a strange blue bird.

She looked like the figure in the stained glass windows of the temple. Graceful, noble, benevolent. _Kynareth_. She took his hands in thanks, nodded in the knowing way of a mother. The bird watched from her shoulder, its song pure and beautiful.

The melody became human sounds, shallow and pained.

He dreamed of a cold mountaintop, a green-grey dragon curled around a crumbling tower. He dreamed of a dark shape loping through the night, almost like a troll – but not quite. More slender, more graceful, made of shadow, with a pointed face and shaggy tail. Kynareth appeared again, reached out and touched the beast’s muzzle. It fell still, shrank into a docile stance, and let out a whine.

Someone was moaning.

Saitama woke slowly. He forgot where he was at first, disoriented in the bluish glow of midnight that had settled over the temple. Clouds bejewelled with stars peeked in through the high windows, the trickle of water hushed and peaceful.

What sounded like a ceramic jug fell to the floor and shattered, and Saitama sat bolt upright.

Genos’s altar was empty.

Movement, across the room. Saitama lurched to his feet, swayed with vertigo. He spotted the mage on his knees by the broken pot, hunched over, panting where he clung to the table. Saitama hurried over to him when Genos tried to pick himself up, tried to stagger for the exit even though he was still wounded.

He ducked close to the blond, hooked the metal arm around the back of his own neck for support. Genos twisted away from him, spluttered panicked protests. The hard fingers dug into Saitama’s leathers, tight and frightened. The mage was breathless, shaky, and the Nord felt worry coil in his gut.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“Stop, let go–”

“Kid, calm down. You’re hurt.”

The mage went suddenly weak-kneed, trembling. “O-outside, please, I have to–!”

Instead, Saitama lowered him to the floor. “I’ll get the priestess.”

He released the youth, turned on his heel, and started for the back room – but froze at a harsh, guttural sound.

Saitama had never seen a werewolf before. Had heard stories and rumours about them, yes, but never stumbled across one. Truth be told, he did not believe they existed. Yet, there was no denying the sight before him.

Black fur and greyish muscle overtook Genos’s body, claimed him, formed around him like a layer of ice over a pond. Thick claws screeched on the tiled floor as _it_ shuddered through the transformation, rattled out strained breaths from a vast mouth of razor fangs. The change was horrific, but swift. When the wolf was whole, huge and hulking in the dark, it threw its arms wide and loosed a feral, gut-shaking roar.

Saitama stared, as close to stunned as he had ever been. The beast focused on him at first, flicked back its ears and bared dangerous teeth, but glanced aside at the horrified gasps of the sick and wounded its cry had pulled from sleep. Off-gold eyes burned bright and angry, embers in the gloom.

Saitama clenched his fists: these people were dinner if he did nothing.

Its interest in the Nord lost, the werewolf whirled to pounce at the closest sickly bystander. Saitama leaped between them, knocked the creature aside with a light slap to the muzzle. The wolf gnashed at him, swiped a powerful arm in retort. He dodged the blow with ease, and shoved the beast hard in the chest. His push threw it backward, off its feet, sent it crashing out through the temple’s doors and into the street.

He detoured to grab his backpack before following it out, a delay that gave the werewolf chance to right itself. It wheeled around to growl at him, at the nearby guards who gasped cries of shock and drew their weapons. Saitama panicked at the glints of steel, fearful of collateral damage. He needed to get this thing out of the city, away from people.

Before he could think up a plan, two more werewolves appeared.

The beast that had been Genos seemed runty by comparison. One of the newcomers had a reddish tint to its fur, sleeker and agile, while the other was simply massive, black as pitch. Both new wolves ignored the guards and their arrows, ignored Saitama, ignored the foolhardy civilians who ran to join the fray with daggers that could not harm a fox. Rather, the bigger wolves tackled the runt away from the temple – herded it down the steps and into the marketplace – in a great storm of fur and snarls and yelps. Saitama followed, numb, yelled for people to return to their homes.

The larger wolves shepherded the smallest closer to the city gates, grappling and biting to keep the runt in check. What it lacked in size, the former Breton made up for with sheer aggression: it missed no chance to swing and snap and grab at the others, fast and vicious. They were vocal, ripping at each other like caged animals over a carcass.

Saitama ran ahead, stopped short of the city wall while the guards there yelled taunts and took shots with their bows. Most of the arrows missed their marks; Saitama shoved the gates wide to open an exit, the whines prickling his skin. His heart raced, muscles coiled tight for battle. He watched the bigger wolves steer the runt out of Whiterun, and tailed them over the wall and across the guard towers.

In the open, the wolves began to run – past the Khajiit caravan and over the stream, headed west. Though the night sky was clear, darkness hung so thick on the scrublands that Saitama could only track them by sound. Their grunts cut the din of insects, stilled birdsong and scattered game.

Away from civilisation, the runt became abruptly distracted by a herd of elk – distraction that allowed the reddish beast to tackle it flat. While they wrestled on the ground, and the herd fled, the largest wolf turned its attention for the first time to Saitama.

He stood still, a little breathless from the sprint, scalp cool with sweat. He did not know what to do, what to think. Where had these things come from, and why did it seem like they wanted human casualties about as much as he did? Had this all been a ploy, to lure him away for a midnight snack? If so, it was an awful lot of trouble to get their claws on one measly bald man.

The huge wolf seemed puzzled. When its gaze fell to his waist, however, and focused on the silver sword hooked there – the one he had taken from the man who attacked Genos – its ears snapped back. It dropped on all fours, and stalked toward him.

Saitama reversed, one palm outstretched to show that he meant no harm. The werewolf rumbled, either not understanding the gesture or not believing it, and snarled when he slowly slid the blade from his belt.

The brute quieted when Saitama tossed the sword aside, threw it away to land in the grass with a dull _thud_.

While the other werewolves fought on a short distance ahead, the creature before him changed shape.

It became a man, a bearded Nord, with black-brown hair and dark paint around his gleaming, silvery eyes. He wore steel armour, a greatsword on his back, and a mask of mystification.

“That’s it?” he said, deep-voiced and gruff. “That’s all you got?”

Saitama shook his head. “What the hell’s going on?”

The dark-haired Nord squinted at him. “Aren’t you with the Silver Hand?”

A pitiful yowl cut off Saitama’s reply. He gave a start, caught off-guard to notice that the sounds of fighting had ceased.

Genos lay on his side in the grass, fully clothed and winded. He rolled onto his back and rose on his elbows, and froze to find the reddish werewolf looming over him.

He scrambled out from under it. The terror on his face quickly hardened, into indignation, and he glared up at the beast as best he could while shaky from exertion. The wolf leaned in again, muzzle inches from his nose, and let out a dismissive puff of breath.

The dark-haired Nord turned his back to Saitama – not thinking him a threat – and waved a hand. “Aela, stop,” he said. “It wasn’t his fault. You saw how wild he was. Must’ve been his first time.”

Saitama frowned. His first time … becoming a werewolf? That could not be true; he had woken to Genos trying to leave the temple, all worked up and frantic, as if he had _known_ what was about to happen.

The reddish wolf snorted at its ally. It, too, took on human form: a woman, another Nord, with green face paint like claw marks and a fierce expression. She, like the man, had eyes that shone brilliant silver, piercing and reflective in the dark.

“He does not smell like a werewolf,” she said. “Something isn’t right.”

Feeling rather like a spectator, Saitama stepped around the bulky Nord and approached Genos. He knelt beside the Breton, the crisp grass scratchy on his elbows, and laid a hand on his shoulder for support. Genos gazed up at him in wonder.

“You … stayed,” he said. He sounded amazed.

Saitama felt one corner of his mouth lift. “Yeah.”

The woman – Aela – watched their exchange with open distrust. She crossed her arms. “Explain yourself, whelp,” she said. Saitama sensed that she was ignoring him. He felt a strange stab of protectiveness when she focused on the Breton’s metal hand, exposed at the hem of his robes. His glove was still at the temple. “You don’t have the beastblood, but you took our shape. What are you?”

A muscle rippled in Genos’s jaw. He was quiet for a long while; he stood once his shivers had slowed, and Saitama rose with him. The blond was indeed the taller of the two, Saitama noticed, broad-shouldered form lost under his cloak. With his peculiar arm, the Breton reached into his robes and tugged off his remaining glove.

“Cursed,” he said.

On the middle finger of his right hand nestled a silver ring. Intricately carved, it sported a raised sigil of a wolf’s head. It was pretty, Saitama thought. Aela grabbed Genos’s hand for a closer look. He let her tug without complaint, though his expression turned sour, silent even when she released him. Her fellow werewolf looked from the ring to the mage’s face and back again, brow knitted.

“A ring of Hircine?” he said.

Genos swallowed hard. “A sorcerer in my village went insane, four years ago,” he said. “He burned down the town, and my arm beyond repair, then put this _thing_ on me. It cannot be removed, and causes me to … change, uncontrollably. My family was killed. I know the sorcerer is somewhere in Skyrim, so I came here to get my revenge.”

Saitama raised an eyebrow. Talk about motivation, he thought.

Aela folded her arms again. “This sorcerer,” she said. “Is he in Whiterun?”

“No,” said Genos, “I do not believe so.”

“Then, neither should you be,” said Aela.

Genos narrowed his eyes at her. Aela’s burly comrade also cast her a sidelong look, guarded but curious.

“Your wolf form is savage,” she said, cold. “You threaten the safety of the Companions, and the Circle, by drawing focus to Jorrvaskr, our home. The Silver Hand has already been snooping around the Hold. We don’t need the extra attention.”

“Silver Hand?” Saitama spoke up. He felt Genos’s stare flick to his face, but did not meet it. “What’s that?”

The other Companion set his hands on his hips. “A group bent on destroying werewolves,” he said. “They hunt us down, torture and kill us. From that sword you had there, I’m guessing you’ve already run into them.”

Saitama looked to the mentioned weapon, abandoned in the dirt where he had thrown it. Knowing what he did now, he felt no desire to pick it up again – no matter how many Septims it was worth.

“You should watch yourself,” Aela said to Genos, who blinked from his scowling daze with a start. The huntress then tapped her knuckles to her friend’s thick bicep. “Farkas, come. We should head back, and tell the guards that the beast got away.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and started toward the city. The man – Farkas – tossed Genos a quick smile as he made to follow. “Good luck, kid.”

Saitama rubbed his throat while he listened to his fellow Nords clank away. The cacophony of night insects soon swallowed the noise, left him with an odd sense of peace. Tiredness crashed into him like a breaker on the rocks, and he fought the urge to collapse where he stood. Genos likewise did not move, fists tight at his sides, the glove fluttering in the breeze where it hung from his metal fingers.

Just as awkwardness began to squeeze Saitama’s chest, Genos spoke.

“You understand now, why I want to be your apprentice,” he said. His gaze was downcast, angled away over the patchy grassland. “I must be more powerful to defeat the mad sorcerer, and get my revenge.”

Saitama sighed, and shrugged out of his rucksack. He untied the bedroll and shook it out, much to Genos’s confusion. “I told you before,” the Nord said tiredly, “I’m not a mage. There’s not a drop of Magicka in my veins. I’ve got nothing to teach you.”

Genos stepped closer. “Nonsense,” he said. Passion blazed in his eyes, bright and fervent. “It is rare and unusual, but Nords _can_ be capable of magic. You must have some inborn ability, even if you do not realise.”

Impatience tugged at Saitama’s temper. “Kid, I won’t say it again. _I am not. A mage_.”

Genos deflated while he watched Saitama lay out the bedroll. When the Nord dug through his pack for firewood, he caught a glimpse of treasure within – gems and jewels and rare pelts looted from enemies. The sight struck the blond with an idea.

“I will pay handsomely for your teachings, Saitama,” he said.

Saitama paused, partway through the construction of a campfire on a bare patch of ground. He pursed his lips, thought hard, then sighed again. This guy was relentless.

“All _right_ , fine, whatever,” he said, and sat on his haunches to glower up at the Breton. “Now help me set up camp, okay?”

Genos brightened. “Yes, master!”

The Nord winced. He felt himself tense in a full-body cringe, and cleared his throat. “Yeah … don’t call me that.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DU203TWhrTE)
> 
> **Context notes** :  
> * **Races** : I chose Nord for Saitama because they don't get starting bonuses to any kind of magic. They're also native to Skyrim and are 50% immune to cold. I figured canon!Saitama would be used to cold from his training regimen. I chose Breton for Genos because they have 50% immunity to magic and start with bonuses to various magical schools, including Conjuration and Destruction - both of which I plan for him to utilise in this story.  
> * **Septims** are gold coins, Skyrim's main currency. The name comes from the dynasty that rules the Septim Empire.  
>  * **High Rock** is home of the Breton race, on Skyrim's western border. **Hammerfell** is home of the Redguard race, a vast desert province which shares a border with both High Rock and Skyrim.  
>  * **Kynareth** (AKA Kyne or Kin) is one of the Nine Divines. She is the goddess of the sky and heavens, the wind, the elements, and unseen spirits of the air, patron saint of sailors and travellers.  
>  * The **Companions** are a sort of guild of warriors based in Whiterun. Their inner Circle are all werewolves, and Jorrvaskr (an old mead hall) is their home.  
>  * **Hircine** is the name of one of the Daedric Princes. The Princes (also called Daedric Lords or Old Gods) are supernatural beings, worshipped by mortals as deities. The Princes (Daedra) are typically considered 'evil' where the Divines (Aedra) are 'good'. Hircine is the Prince of the hunt, sport, the Great Game, and the Chase; he gave lycanthropy/ werewolfism to mortalkind.  
>  * The **Cursed Ring of Hircine** , in the game, has a 10% chance to force the wearer into werewolf form while outdoors. I've chosen to make that chance valid anywhere, outdoors or in. The in-game item also removes itself after the player changes back; for the sake of plot, that doesn't happen in this story.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	2. Dragonslayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Content warnings_ \- animal death (fish; dragon)

*

 

Saitama did not sleep well that night.

He lay awake under the stars, traced constellations in vain attempt to trick himself into a doze. The main reason for his insomnia was the fact he had never shared a bed before: his rucksack contained only a single bedroll, and it would have felt wrong to make Genos lie on the bare ground. But sharing was too warm, even after the campfire sputtered out, their backs pressed flush. Though Genos neither wriggled nor mumbled in dreams, Saitama failed to settle.

He could feel the Breton’s every breath where their bodies touched, the hard mounds of shoulder blades through clothes, each jump of muscle in the twitches of sleep. It felt strange, somehow visceral, like a revelation.

He had spent so long alone, years stacked on years of life in the wilds, that he had forgotten what it felt like to be physically close to another person. At least, one he did not plan to punch. The tickle of hair at the back of his head felt also alien, different to a pelt or fur-lined hood, though not unpleasant.

The closeness disturbed him. It felt like a fever dream, an impossible situation, yet the dry prickle of grass under his outstretched hand grounded him in reality.

It stirred a strange sense of sadness in the Nord. He wondered if ‘normal’ people felt this way. He wondered how spouses felt about sharing beds, about limiting one’s own space to dwell in the presence of another. Saitama was not a selfish man, but he did not know if he could share _everything_ with someone.

But, Genos was … interesting. Other people did not usually capture Saitama’s attention. They were loud and pushy and self-centred, in his experience, always with a demand on their lips. They always wanted something from him. Genos possessed each of those traits, but….

Saitama twisted where he lay, glanced over his shoulder to study the back of the mage’s head.  

Loneliness was not something he experienced. He liked the peace of his nomadic lifestyle, the solitude, the independence. He liked the freedom to go where he wanted, when he wanted, liked not being tied to or having to look after another person.

Yet … there was something attractive about it, about _company_. He could not put his finger on the feeling.

Saitama faced forward, and folded an arm beneath his cheek. He had not thought about such things before.

There was also another reason for his insomnia.

Guilt gnawed at his insides, a niggle that would not fade no matter how hard he tried to push it down. Genos was young, naïve. When he had offered to pay for Saitama’s ‘teachings’, the Nord accepted out of impulse and annoyance. _Why_? He was not a mage, had said so himself – multiple times.

No: he was taking advantage of a troubled orphan’s desperation. He wanted to curl into a small ball and hide in his hands, but the body beside him prevented much movement.

“I’m such an idiot,” he muttered to himself.

The sun rose behind the Throat of the World, the tallest mountain in Tamriel, lightened the sky to steep the horizon a soft shade of pink. The chorus of cicadas did not quiet, now scattered with the melody of morning birds, the crisp stars still visible through swathes of thin cloud. The fires in the windows of Dragonsreach burned on, smoke trails languid. Butterflies flitted about the trees and bushes, their gentle movements graceful and calming.

Once the sun had peeked into view around the mountains, Saitama gave up on any chance of rest. He crawled out of the bedroll, careful so as not to wake Genos, stretched, and crouched over his rucksack. From its depths he dug out a dagger, a blunt spoon, a small bucket, and a thin but strong stick he had sharpened to a point. With a quick look at the mage – still sound asleep – Saitama ambled downhill in the direction of Whiterun.

He sat cross-legged on the bank of the stream, and laid out his tools. His mind chugged blank, having gone through this routine so many times that he did not need to think about the process. Within minutes, he had speared a fish. Once he had scaled, cleaned, and gutted it, he thought it appropriate to catch one for Genos as well.

Usually, he would relight the campfire to cook his catch. But if Genos was set on sticking around, he thought, they might as well make use of each other’s skills. He returned to camp to find the Breton conscious, seated upright in the bedroll and rubbing one eye. Saitama bade him ‘good morning’, and explained his plan.

“You want me to use my magic,” Genos repeated slowly, “to cook a fish?”

“Two, actually,” said Saitama, and he held out his bucket of fillets. “I got one for you, too. Breakfast is important.”

Genos squinted at the cuts. “Master, you do realise that River Betty is damaging to your health,” he said. “It is an alchemical ingredient, not food. Most often, they are used in poisons.”

Saitama lowered his catch, too surprised to notice what Genos had called him. “Oh, right?” he said. He peered into the bucket. “I’ve ate them before. Loads of times, to be honest. Never noticed. You’re sure they’re poisonous?”

The mage raised a knuckle to his lips, deep in thought. “Your magical resistance must be quite something,” he said. “Or, perhaps consuming them on a regular basis has built up your tolerance somehow.”

Ill at ease, Saitama set the bucket on the ground. “D’you want one, or not?”

“Ah, yes, thank you,” said Genos. He extracted himself from the bedroll and stood, robes rumpled and twisted. “If they contribute to master’s power, then I shall eat them as well.”

The Nord wilted. “I told you, don’t call me that….”

He trailed off when Genos stretched out his regular hand, and began to cast a steady stream of flame into the pot. Saitama, resigned, poked at the fillets with his stick, flipping them to ensure they cooked through.

The curl of guilt in his stomach squeezed while they ate, seated on rocks around the cold campfire. Genos’s skin held more colour than last night, though he did look nauseated by the fish, his movements precise and energetic.

From what little Saitama had seen already, the youth was a skilled mage. Destruction appeared to be his forte, with some Conjuration thrown in. He had knowledge of Restoration and Alteration, as well. There was nothing the Nord could teach him: he knew not a single spell, and was the furthest thing one could find from a scholar.

Saitama wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. A scholar….

“Hey, kid,” he said on a whim. “Have you ever been to Winterhold?”

Genos swallowed his mouthful with visible difficulty. “No, though I have heard of it,” he said. “The man who helped me cross the border mentioned it, because I am a ‘finger waggler’, but I see no relevance.”

Saitama sat straighter on his rock. “There’s a school there, the College of Winterhold,” he told the Breton. He groped for another chunk of fish from inside the bucket, and waved it around as he explained. “Mages from all over Skyrim – nah, the _continent_ – go there to study. You should check it out. You can learn from a real master there.”

“There is no greater master than you, Saitama,” said the blond, without delay. The Nord contained a cringe. Genos looked to the half-eaten fillet in his metal hand, then lowered it to his lap. “For you to show such skill without knowledge, as you claim, you must possess a great deal of Magicka and raw talent. Even if you cast on instinct, subconsciously, there is much I can learn from you.”

Saitama fought back a sigh. Was there any getting out of this?

“Have you been to Winterhold before, master?”

He leaned aside, and pulled a leather flask from his pack. “Yeah, once,” he said. He popped the cap and took a swig of clean water, then offered the pouch to Genos. “It’s all right. Snowy. Nice tavern.”

Genos took a drink. “I dislike snow.”

Saitama almost laughed. “Then you came to the wrong country, kid,” he said. He thought of _why_ Genos had come to Skyrim, and an idea occurred. “Hey, maybe someone at the College knows where to find your sorcerer. Mages aren’t really smiled on here, so, they keep tabs on each other.”

As Genos wiped his mouth with his flesh hand, features pensive, the morning sun caught his ring. Saitama stared at it, drawn to the carved wolf head.

“Or,” he said, “maybe they can get that thing off your finger.”

The Breton likewise glanced at his hand, then hid the accessory in the folds of his cloak. “None can remove it but the one who did this to me,” he said, “but, you make a valid suggestion. If someone at this College can narrow my search, I would very much like to visit.”

Saitama gulped down his last hunk of fish, then hopped upright and swiped the empty bucket from the ground. “Settled, then,” he said brightly. “We’re going to Winterhold. Pack up while I clean this, yeah?”

Genos sat still for a moment, watched him start in the direction of the river, then scrambled to his feet. “Master–”

Saitama stopped dead at his alarmed tone.

The mage focused on the ground. “A-a moment, if I may?”

The Nord turned to face him, a lick of concern in his throat. “Sure.”

Genos wrung his hands together. “I was hesitant to say anything, but …” he said. He looked up, met Saitama’s gaze with an unreadable twist to his brow. “Are you … quite sure you are comfortable, travelling with me?”

Saitama cocked his head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Genos gave him a sceptical look. “You have seen what can happen – how I lose control,” he said. He then reached out with his left arm, flexed the golden fingers in the space between them. The metal was so smooth that Saitama could see the sky reflected in it, warped around the curves and scratches. “And, I am … unpleasant, to look upon. Does this not bother you?”

This time, the Nord did laugh. “Look at me, kid,” he said, and spread his arms. The bucket swung in his grip. “I’m bald at twenty-five, plain and dirty and shorter than a teenager. D’you really think I care what you look like?”

The blond shook his head, in dismissal rather than answer. “And, the curse?” he said. “The danger you are in, just by being around me?”

Saitama shrugged. “Don’t even go there,” he said. “Listen. Everyone’s got stuff about themselves they don’t like. You’re a good guy who’s had something awful happen to them. It’s not your fault. It’s not like you can hurt me, anyway.”

The hiss of insects and the bubbling stream swelled in the pause that followed his words. The noise was truly wondrous: Saitama often got caught up in it, how loud nature could be. He watched Genos shift his weight in place, also taken by the music of the wilderness. Saitama watched the breeze lift his hair, studied the firm jawline and cheekbones it revealed, saw something deep and rooted in his amber eyes.

“And, you’re not _unpleasant_ to look at,” he heard himself grumble. He dropped his arms to his sides, earnest while the startled mage met his gaze. “You’re all right, kid.”

Genos swallowed. Tension eased from his stance, and his expression softened. It was not a smile, but something open and grateful all the same. “Thank you, master.”

‘Master’, again. Saitama squared his shoulders, swapped the bucket to his other hand, and stomped off toward the river. “You’ve really gotta stop calling me that.”

They packed up camp and set out before the sun could rise too much higher, guided by a scrubby path and fallen boughs. Mist hung low over the ground, wreathed a mammoth’s skull that lay cracked and half-buried in the dirt. They passed a grazing elk, waded through knee-high patches of lavender that grew along a slight incline. With Whiterun to the right, the ground grew rockier; insects quieted as the sky brightened, and the roof of a small sentry tower eased into view around a hillock.

“That’s Whitewatch Tower,” said Saitama, upon noticing Genos’s interest.

“What happened to it?” said Genos. “It looks … burnt. A dragon attack?”

Saitama slowed his pace to take a second glance. Genos was right: strips of the stonework had been blackened by fire, the thatched roof charred and partly fallen away. There were no guards posted, he realised, the sconces empty and cold.

“Guess so,” he said.

“I had heard that dragons have returned to Skyrim,” said Genos, distant with fascination. “I had not believed….”

Stepping over a boulder, Saitama cleared his throat. “How often does that ring make you lose it?” he said.

Genos tripped, thrown by the change of subject. “It appears to be random,” he said, brow creased. “In four years, I have been unable to determine a pattern or particular trigger, hence why I stay away from cities and large groups. Master, do you think we will encounter a dragon in our travels?”

The Nord adjusted his rucksack, disgruntled. “I hope not,” he said. “But hey, if we do, let’s hope for the wolf to come out, eh? You two can duke it out – a clash of titans, or whatever.”

The mage seemed to consider the idea. Saitama sighed; this kid was far too serious.

They headed east, toward the mountains, where crisp sunlight broke the jagged shapes in a vivid yellow flare. Saitama led the way over a small drop in the earth, across a cobbled path and uphill again. The beginnings of snow peppered the terrain, and a rustle from his side revealed that Genos had raised his hood. Saitama hummed in thought; he felt no drop in temperature, though imagined that the Breton was more sensitive to it than he.

An odd rock formation stood ahead, a circle of bent pillars atop a hill. Saitama recognised it at once, though not as a landmark. As they climbed the slope, he saw that the mound had changed since his last visit here: a large hole filled the ring of stone, like a Nordic burial mound, empty and eerie.

Just big enough to hold a dragon.

“We should keep moving,” he said. Genos looked to him and nodded, but kept quiet.

Visible from the apex of the hill, an excellent vantage point, a strip of ocean stretched beyond the tight-knit, spindly, white-dusted trees to the north. They moved farther east, at an easy pace. By midday, the landscape had transformed into snowy tundra; flora grew sparse, trees thin and tall, the powder thick enough to crunch underfoot and leave prints in the travellers’ wake.

A sudden shiver from Genos made Saitama’s chest clench – but he stopped in his tracks when he noticed the clouds of breath that trailed from their mouths. “You cold?” he said.

For a second, Genos looked like he wanted to deny it. “Yes,” he said. “I fear I am not dressed for this weather.”

Saitama peered ahead, over the undulating ground, the whistle of wind loud in his ears. He thought he could hear a troll amid the hawk cries and distant wolf calls, though saw nothing but a watchful fox across the snow. “We’ll stop in a bit,” he said. “Grab some lunch. I’ve got a few pelts in my pack, we can make you another cloak or something for warmth.”

“Thank you, master.”

The not-troll sound, again. On instinct, Saitama raised his eyes to the sky. The noise echoed from somewhere far away, a definite roar.

“Master?”

Saitama shushed his companion. Genos turned away, alert, surveyed the tundra like a predator. A sharp wind caught their clothes, whipped at his robes, threw airborne clumps of snow and dirt. The Nord listened hard, tense and wary.

Another roar, closer than before.

Genos drew his hands together, curled his fingers around the warped orb of violet that pulsed to life between them. He threw it forth, and an atronach burst from the nether. Graceful and lithe, the elemental creature unfurled in a plume of crackling flames and slender limbs. The Daedra hung in the air beside her summoner, eyeless face turned to him as he then conjured a bow and arrow. Saitama almost felt inadequate next to the mage, with his bare fists and weapons meant not for battle.

The ground shook.

A shadow swept over the snow, chased by a flurry of powder and snapped twigs. Genos readied his weapon with practiced speed, his Daedra thrall poised with fireball in hand. Begrudgingly, Saitama craned his neck.

The dragon soared overhead, huge and white and spiny, streaked black and grey with tattered wings and a spade-shaped tail. It circled the travellers, dodged the first arrow without effort. Saitama sensed its excitement, sensed its focus drawn to him; they stared each other down, Saitama motionless even as Genos and his atronach launched a full attack against the colossal being.

The dragon landed hard in the snow before them. The impact knocked Genos down, but Saitama stood strong. He squared up to the winged reptile’s scaly leer, its slitted eyes fierce as it opened that cavernous mouth.

“ _Hin tiid lost bo, Dovahkiin_!”

“Master, move!”

Genos tackled Saitama to the ground, out of the path of the dragon’s bite. Flames burst over the behemoth’s snout, tossed by his atronach. The monstrous lizard whipped its spiked face away, spread its wings and took off again with a snort of rage.

Saitama pushed the blond roughly off him. “Genos, we need to run!”

“What?” the mage cried, dumbstruck where he knelt in the slush. The dragon roared, circled while his fiery Daedra drew its attention. “No! We can defeat it! With your strength–”

The Nord yanked him upright by the front of his robes. “I can’t do anything!” He gritted his teeth. “I’m nobody, kid, get that into your head!”

Genos gaped at him, windswept. His features then hardened. He gripped Saitama by the wrists, and pried himself free. “I refuse to accept that.”

Frustration broiled in Saitama’s lungs. He shook his head, and wheeled away. “Fine,” he said. “Fight it if you like, but I’m not sticking around.”

Without another word, he ran for the trees.

Genos stared after him. The dragon roared again, and anger overtook his confusion. He readied his bow, took aim at the frost-breathing lizard in the sky.

The creature was quick, agile for its size. It dodged most of his arrows with ease – and those that hit, it shrugged off like water droplets. He changed tactics: banishing his weapon, he instead hurled handfuls of Magicka – flames and fireballs – cast runes on the ground that exploded when his foe touched down again.

Once his atronach went down, erupting in a fiery geyser, the dragon turned its attention to Genos. He poured everything he had into his magic; the titan was weakening, scales blackened and singed, blood on its snout – but not dead. It lumbered toward him, snapped through the torrent of flames from his hands.

Genos made to summon a second Daedra – but blanched when he found he lacked the energy.

The dragon was more powerful than he had anticipated. Saitama was right: he should have run.

It exhaled a stream of frost, an ice-cold breath that bit at the mage’s skin and crystallised on his clothes. The chill bored into his bones, slowed his movements. With a swipe of the tail, the dragon knocked him down. He struggled to get up again, breaths rapid and painful, felt the quakes through the earth as his foe stomped closer.

He looked up, saw the snow-flecked knuckles of its wing before him. Under other circumstances, he would have marvelled at the sight. The membrane, stretched taut, claw curved and deadly. A terrifying wonder of nature. Its mouth came into view, jagged and greyish. Merciless. It smelled burnt, of stone and trees and old flesh. Its breath stung his nose, tainted by hunger, rotten with the sick-sweet scent of death.

He felt his energy slowly returning, his muscles thawing out, but not enough to cast a spell. A few seconds of flames, at most.

He was not afraid.

Then he saw a flash of brown leather and fur, and the dragon lurched away.

It was not a voluntary movement. Rather, its body was dragged into motion when its head snapped back – wings splayed uneven as if in surprise – a fist-shaped indent in its jaw. The enormous creature collapsed, keeled over with a mighty _crash_ and upheaval of snow. The wind howled over its corpse, deafening without the grunts and roars to dominate it. Genos gathered himself onto hands and knees, sat up to stare – once more in awe – at where Saitama stood before him, faced away.

Beyond, the dragon’s flesh began to burn.

Welcome heat washed over the mage, and his confusion morphed into shock as a new wind churned through the air. This gust had colour, white and pink and blue, otherworldly, swirling out from the reptilian corpse to whip around Saitama. The Nord almost seemed to glow within the cyclone, unmoving until the current petered out and left their enemy a mere skeleton.

Saitama half-turned, expression guarded. “You okay?”

Genos released the gasp stuck in his chest. “By the gods,” he whispered. “You … you took its _soul_. You are the Dragonborn.”

Saitama fixed him with a bitter look, but offered his hand. Genos took it, and climbed to his feet.

“Don’t call me that,” said Saitama. His eyes flashed. “I _mean_ it, kid. ‘Master’ I can put up with, if you really want to use that, but not … not _that_.”

Genos searched for words while Saitama patted frost from his robes. “But it is a gift from the gods.”

The Nord gave a dry smirk. “Fat lot of good that does me,” he said. He let out a heavy sigh, and reversed to perch upon the massive skeleton’s tibia.

The Breton watched him rub his tired face, and lowered his hood to speak freely. Emotions whirled in his chest: humility, amazement, adrenaline. Bewilderment. A hawk shrieked somewhere overhead, the far-off howls lost to the moaning wind.

This explained everything.

A Dragonborn was a mortal body with an immortal soul, the soul of a dragon. Genos knew as much, had read about it before he even came to Skyrim. This soul granted the Dragonborn incredible power – the power to Shout, as the dragons did. His Voice, his Thu’um, could level mountains, summon fire and ice and storms, and granted him great strength.

Genos understood: Saitama was not a mage. He was a living legend.

And yet….

“Because of the way I look,” said Saitama, voice flat and weary, “no-one takes me seriously. I tried, you know? Years ago. I tried to help people. But they said I was a phony, said I was faking my power for fame and money, praise. They all wanted something … fetch quests, killing monsters, hunting crooks too dangerous for anyone else to handle … but then they’d turn around and spit at my feet. They didn’t….”

Genos searched his face, patient, his own features dark. What fools those people were, he thought, what insolence, to dismiss this man. Even if he were not Dragonborn – he was kind, selfless, knowledgeable. He was a good soul, and they alienated him.

Saitama gave a hollow laugh. “I trained with the Greybeards so hard I went bald, Shouting on that damn mountain,” he said. “And for what? No-one respects me. So, I don’t bother anymore.”

“You gave up,” said Genos, tightness in his heart.

“I don’t care about the world enough to save it,” said Saitama. He crossed his thick arms over his chest, eyes locked aside. “That should make me feel bad, but I don’t. I don’t _feel_ anymore. I don’t care about anything.”

Genos balled his fists. He did not shift his gaze from Saitama, shoulders slack and indifferent to the wind, as a disappointed mother might look upon her child.

“You saved me,” he pointed out, and Saitama went unnaturally still. “Master, if you do not care about anything, why did you save my life – twice?”

A loud groan of wind made Genos shiver, and Saitama bowed his head. The Nord was quiet for what felt like eternity, a statue where he sat. He then stood with a sigh of exertion, careful to avoid the mage’s eye, and slipped the rucksack from his shoulders.

“We’ll stay here for a bit,” he said, as he pawed through his collection of tools and chopped wood. “I’ve got a needle somewhere. You’ll need heavier clothes if we’re headed north. Get a fire going, would you?”

He thrust a bundle of kindling at Genos. The mage accepted the armful without complaint. He had, by this point, recovered enough Magicka to melt a clear patch on the ground, and set about building a campfire.

Once the flames were of a decent height, snapping and crackling, Genos sat himself on a nearby rock and looked to Saitama. The Nord had unearthed several sabre cat pelts from his sack, now busy with a needle and thread. His face was drawn in concentration, and Genos felt a swell of gratitude toward the man.

“I respect you, master,” he said.

Saitama’s fingers stilled in their motions, and he glanced for a second at Genos. His plain face seemed candid, somehow, disarmed, younger in his surprise. An embarrassed frown then overcame him, and he focused on the ream of fur in his lap.

“You’re all right, kid,” he said again.

Genos basked in his praise, despite its roughness. He leaned closer to the fire to warm his hand, content to sit in silence a while. As the cloak gradually took on shape, he wondered if he should take over its construction instead. His curiosity got the better of him, however, and the question transformed on its way out of his mouth.

“May I see a Shout?” he asked instead.

Saitama fired an irritable look his way. “I’ll Shout you off a cliff if you don’t drop it.”

His tone was so sour that Genos could not help but smile.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FeUu-2igRqo)
> 
> Dovahzul (dragon language) translation:  
>  _Hin tiid lost bo, Dovahkiin_ \- "your time has come, Dragonborn"
> 
>  **Context notes** :  
> * **Tamriel** is the name of the continent where Skyrim is located. The planet's name is Nirn.  
>  * **River Betty** really does damage health when consumed. It can also be used to create potions that fortify Alteration magic and one's carry weight, and poisons that slow down enemies.  
>  * **Magicka** is what mages use to cast magic. Think of it like spell points, or PP in Pokémon: you can only cast what you can afford. It regenerates over time, like stamina and health.  
>  * **Daedra** are a race of supernatural entities that come from the realm of Oblivion. Those gifted with Conjuration magic can summon Daedric creatures called atronachs to fight for them. Atronachs come in Flame, Ice, and Storm form.  
>  * The **Thu'um** (Voice) is an ancient type of magic, which all Nords have access to. However, it takes a _long_ time (and a lot of effort) to master even one Word of Power (three of which make up a full Shout). Thus, very few Nords can actually Shout. The Greybeards (a monastic order) spend their whole lives atop the Throat of the World, studying the Thu'um. Dragons know and use the Thu'um naturally, because it's based on their language. Since the Dragonborn has the soul of a dragon, he/she can master it very quickly and with ease. They learn new Shouts by reading Words of Power from Word Walls, and absorbing the souls of dragons to gain their understanding.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	3. Whispers in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Content warnings_ \- angst; mentions of death/loss and suicidal thoughts.

*

 

Genos had never seen an aurora before.

Brilliant ribbons of green and blue danced amid the stars above Tumble Arch Pass, the giants’ campsite where he and Saitama chose to spend the night. Smoke from the massive campfire churned the cold air black, spat sparks in snaps of cracked wood, the tall flames a loud but peaceful roar. The wind roamed harsh and bitter, sharp over the muffling snow, curved the fire and battered the wall of their makeshift tent. No sound of crickets echoed here, only the calls of crows and owls and other birds the mage did not recognise.

He sat wide-awake in his crude bed, fashioned from the hide of mammoths whose meat and cheese had made up their supper. The herd’s towering shepherd slumped beaten a fair distance away, the giant felled by Saitama in a single blow. The Nord’s own bedroll lay beside Genos’s, motionless where he curled asleep.

Genos gazed into the fire, beset with an odd sense of calm. He felt relaxed, for once, at ease. Quietly, he dipped his quill into his ink pot and steadied the small journal in his lap.

_15 th of Last Seed, 4E 204._

_Saitama has not lied to me_ , he wrote, by the light of the flames. _From the beginning, he told me he was not a mage. I accept this now. His power is unique, does not cost him Magicka. Yet, I still wish to be his apprentice._

He brushed the clean, soft end of the quill against his lower lip. A moment of reflection passed, filled with the sounds and smells of the night.

_He understands my request about as much as I understand his unwillingness to be the Dragonborn. It is a great gift. His strength is remarkable. There is much he can teach me, though our breeds of magic are quite different._

_I believe I made the right choice, in following him. I owe him a great debt for saving my life, but it goes beyond that now. He is strong enough to keep me in check, to keep my curse from harming anyone. He seems to trust me, despite everything. He said that I cannot be blamed for the wolf’s actions, and I know he was right. I see the logic in his words._

Genos swallowed hard. He glanced to Saitama’s sleeping form, felt a ripple in his brow. His hand trembled when he returned to the journal.

_But those words do not ease my conscience._

The mage hovered over this sentence for a moment. With a heavy breath, he scratched it out.

 _I sense great sadness in Saitama_ , he wrote on. _He brightens when we share food, when we converse as we travel. I cannot explain it, but he becomes somehow unburdened, as if he is grateful for my presence. It is a peculiar thought._

Genos hummed to himself. Saitama shifted beside him, gave a dry grunt as he nestled deeper into his bedroll. The mage ceased the movements of his quill, watched him wriggle with bated breath. Once sure his master was in no danger of awakening, Genos filled his quill again.

 _I hope that someday,_ he wrote, _Saitama will find someone to keep him company. Someone kind, who sees him for the incredible man he is. Someone to talk to him while he roams, who will eat with him and make him laugh. I hope he finds someone who cares for him as I do._

He paused, shocked by his own writings. The last three words had flowed from his quill almost of their own accord, without thought from their author. Unnerved, he hurried to scratch them out.

He hesitated. Instead of erasing the line, he added another.

 _What I feel is gratitude_ , he scribbled. _I owe him my life. Nothing more_.

Genos read the footnote back to himself, mouthed it in silence, thrice over. He bit his lip, and peered into the fire.

It tasted like a lie.

Both pinkish moons hung low behind the dense, tight-knit trees of the tundra. He saw water to the east, downhill, a small lake edged by ice and rock. Fallen snow streamed in wispy flurries from the lip of the banks, lifted by the wind.

Killing the mad sorcerer was all that mattered. Genos lived solely for revenge, to seek justice for his family and home. It was his purpose. He had neither the time nor the desire for friendship, or … anything greater than such. He was damaged, hollow, a shell of a man. Genos could never be more than a shadow to Saitama, an echo in his footsteps, a ghost in the breeze.

Something tightened in his belly, pressure in his mouth and chest, and the mage pinned his spent quill in the cover of his battered journal. He stowed the book inside a pocket within his robes, and took up the inkpot and its stopper. Swirling thoughts kept him from sealing the bottle, attention elsewhere.

He admired Saitama, perhaps more than an apprentice should. They had known each other for a mere day and a quarter – though he did not like to class the latter, since his memory was blurred by pain and the curse. Such a short time, and yet….

He felt as if he could trust the Nord with anything. Felt as if he  _knew_ him, from a long time ago, but that was impossible.

There was something appealing about Saitama, something attractive, something that made Genos feel safe and – dare he think it – _normal_. At first, the mage had spoken out of politeness; he asked and answered questions as formality, to pass the time with pleasant conversation. Now he realised that he _wanted_ to know more about the man, ease his worries and doubts, absorb his wisdom and, in turn, share what he knew about the world. Saitama was steady, solid, a boulder at the peak of a waterfall, keeping him from tumbling over the edge.

The thought frightened Genos.

He had allowed himself to hope.

The Breton fumbled with the inkpot, the stiffness in his hands unrelated to the cold. Small movements were always tricky for his mechanical arm, though having the flesh one tremble did not help. His quest came first: he could not – _would_ not – get attached to anyone or anything. Not even Saitama.

Somewhere close, an owl screeched. The shriek startled Genos so badly that he dropped the bottle, and ink splashed across his lap in a great black streak. Rattled, he used the hem of his cloak to soak up the spill from his new bedroll – only to realise the flaw of wet clothes in such a frigid environment. With a stifled hiss of annoyance, Genos shed his outer garment and kicked free of his blankets.

As he stood, his gaze caught on the nearby lake. He thought that, since he was awake and needed to hang the cloak by the fire anyway, he might as well use this time to clean the evidence of his clumsiness.

Another glance at Saitama, cocooned on the ground, revealed that the Nord was still dead to the world. Mind set, the dirty cloak gathered in one arm, Genos stepped into his boots and tiptoed out of the camp.

He did not think to grab the furs Saitama had sewn for him; in his thin robes, the trek downhill felt like a long one. He strode between fallen trees and blue patches of mountain flowers, shivering, alert for night predators. Away from the campfire, thick darkness swallowed much of the tundra. The dim stars lit the snow at his feet; fresh powder began to fall once he reached the water, fine and sparse, like pinpricks on his exposed skin.

One benefit of having a metal arm was that he could not sense temperature through it. He often missed being able to feel with that hand – but in this moment, he blessed his luck. He swept the ink-stained cloak through the icy water, limb immune to the chill, glad Dwemer metal could not catch frostbite.

He looked up, and performed a double-take. Speaking of Dwemer metal….

Across the ice floes, half-buried by white and weeds, a large, off-gold pipe glinted in the half-light. The colour stood proud from the monochrome ground, dull and weathered. Genos straightened out of his crouch, intrigued. The pipe curved into the mouth of a sloped cave, nestled in a rocky crest of earth, its mouth lined with icy stalactites.

He laid his clean cloak over a toppled bough, and glanced toward the campsite. Firelight flickered through the trees; the air temperature had dropped sharply away from it, and would descend further still if snow continued to fall.

Despite that, his soul itched to explore. Dwarven ruins often contained powerful spell tomes and enchanted equipment.

Genos wrenched a branch from the dead tree, lit it like a torch with his magic, and circled around the lake.

As he neared the cave, he saw another pipe on the far edge of the entrance. This one billowed steam through a line of vents; the ruin must have still been active. Dwemer technology never failed to amaze him, functional almost four thousand years after the Dwarves disappeared.

New sounds met his ears, the moment he ducked inside the cave: soft whirs and hisses of steam-powered machinery, occasional clanks of metal somewhere farther in. Genos ran one hand along the pipe as he crept through the narrow entrance tunnel, makeshift torch in the lead. Moss and roots spilled from greenish walls, glistened in the firelight, another pipe set into the roof. He smelled damp and decay, heard crumbling rock and the erratic drip of water.

The tunnel widened into a small, natural chamber. Two Frostbite Spiders lay curled on their backs on the cavern floor, each as large as a horse, spiny legs twisted inward. They had been dead for some time, he wagered, though he could still smell their sour venom. The torchlight caught on a chest to the right, made of stone and dirty-bronze metal; Genos hastened to it, but forced loose the lid to find it empty. Someone had been here before.

The tunnel continued, thinner and sloped, wreathed in mist. Genos followed its course, edged sideward so as not to brush the walls. Pebbles fell from the ceiling, showered him in dust, and he coughed. He sped up when he noticed the whine of wind ahead, dirt crunching underfoot.

It led him to a dead end.

A small pool of water lurked at the end of the passage. He ignored it, raised his torch instead to the walls, looking for a hidden switch or lever. Frustration built when he found none, and he hugged himself with his free arm for warmth. Each breath gathered in a cloud before him, lingered just long enough to stoke his temper.

“Waste of time,” he uttered, and turned around.

A shadow in the pool caught his eye, and he doubled back.

Through the pitch-gloom of the water, he could just make out the shape of … _something_ , below. He crouched for a better look. The tunnel must have led deeper, once, into some kind of temple or sanctuary, now flooded. The torchlight revealed the crown of an enormous statue, pale and submerged, the top of an elven head. It must have been taller than a tower, he thought, the shape fading into darkness where the fire could not reach.

Though fascinated by his find, Genos felt no desire to dive in and investigate. He would freeze to death in minutes, if not sooner. Perhaps he should tell Saitama of it, and _he_ could swim down to look around.

Either way, the mage saw little else to do here. He started back up the sloped tunnel, retraced his steps toward the chamber of dead spiders.

A sound stopped him.

Shuffling, four heavy paws and too much muscle. Genos threw his torch back into the water – where it went out with an angry hiss – and flattened himself against the wall, listening. A breath rattled down the passageway, harsh and fanged. He blinked hard, willed his eyes to adjust to the dark. A snort, throaty rumbling, claws on bare rock; a wet nose, sniffing the air.

He knew the sound. _Bear_. In a heartbeat he had conjured a dagger, ready to defend himself should the thing sniff him out. He heard it shuffle some more, and realised that a tight tunnel was not the ideal place to wait. The mage braced himself: he was no stranger to battle, travelled as he was. One bear should pose no threat, even in low light.

Aware that he would be in danger no matter what he did, he crept forward.

The mammal was a large one, shaggy and white, interested in the spider corpses. In the moment before it noticed him, Genos entertained the thought that he could sneak around it – flee without injury. He would rather avoid the death of creatures he did not intend to use in some way, be it for meat or fur.

Then it snapped its dark eyes toward him, and growled. Clearly, he looked more appetising than a pair of dead spiders.

It reared up and roared, a bone-shaking noise in the quiet cave, and lumbered toward him. Genos raised his dagger and metal arm to block, stood firm. An instant before it swung for him, he launched himself aside in a nimble roll.

His elbow nicked an outcrop in the wall, and he stumbled.

Once more, he had miscalculated. There was no space to manoeuvre, no room to summon an atronach or fireball without burning himself. The bear’s fur gleamed wet, likely from swimming in the lake: he did not know how effective fire magic would be, even if he did have space to cast.

Option two: he could try to skirt around it, flee the cave and lead it to Saitama.

He scowled. He could not rely on his master for everything.

A third option occurred to him, as the bear lurched to bite, an idea so swift and unprovoked that he had no time to analyse it. He could stall, hope for the cursed ring to seize him – and fight beast against beast as a werewolf.

The bear was on him before he could process that thought.

Genos snapped up his false limb, as if to block with a shield. The creature’s jaw fastened around his forearm, teeth screeching against the metal. There was no pain, no sensation to speak of. Before it could raise its front paws to maul him, he plunged its dagger into the side of its neck.

With a pained bellow, the beast swatted him aside. The swipe was weak, a knee-jerk reaction without measured force, but knocked him down all the same. He caught the wall before he could stumble, and saw that the bear was too busy with its injury – twisting to try and rip the dagger from its flesh – to chase him. Genos turned and ran, sprinted from the cave and out into the night–

–straight into Saitama.

“Whoa, hey!” the Nord cried, catching him by the elbows. Genos spluttered in his grip, disoriented and panicked. Saitama’s eyes were wide, expression stark; he opened his mouth to speak, but cut himself off when he looked down. His features hardened, and Genos felt those powerful hands squeeze. “You’re bleeding.”

The mage gasped out a confused breath. A sharp sting in his side told him that Saitama was right; the bear’s claws had caught him through his clothes, nicked grooves in the skin. The wound was shallow, however, minor. Before he could state as much, a loud roar tore its way free of the cave.

Genos staggered when Saitama released him, pushed in front of him. He watched the Nord stride up to the cavern’s entrance, saw the glow of the bear’s pale fur grow as it raced toward them. The beast charged outdoors and did not stop, teeth bared to attack, streaks of blood on its shoulder.

While Genos readied himself to summon an atronach, Saitama planted his feet.

He sucked in a breath, fists clenched, and yelled.

“ _Faas Ru Maar!_ ”

Thunder boomed on the final word, and – for a split second – a flash of red enveloped the bear. Not lightning, but energy – emotion – _fear_. The bulky beast skidded to a halt in the slush at the lakeside, shook as if to shrug off a physical blow. Then, with a frantic scrambling of padded feet, the bear turned tail and ran. It dashed away, into the mountains, with neither a cry nor backward glance.

Genos straightened up, at first unable to work out what had happened. He gaped, speechless.

Saitama turned around, cool and bland as could be.

That was a Shout.

He had Shouted the bear into submission, struck terror in its heart.

“This is why you don’t wander alone at night,” he said. His voice rang calm, now, level, no trace of that ancient ferocity. In contrast, he sounded almost bored. “You okay, kid?”

“I …” said Genos, shaken. He cleared his throat to compose himself, and peeled back the rip in his robes to inspect his injury. The claw marks had done little more than graze him. Reassured, he let the torn cloth fall limp. He would bandage himself when they returned to the campsite. “I am fine, master. Thank you. How did you find me?”

Saitama crossed his arms. “Heard the roaring,” he said. “It woke me up, and you were gone. I figured you were having a wolf moment. Guess not.”

Genos stiffened. _A wolf moment_. Realisation washed over him, the memory of his urge in the cave.

He had wanted to transform.

His eyes went wide, beyond control, huge with horror. He gagged and made to cover his mouth with a hand, but stopped halfway. The ring gleamed on his finger, the carved lupine face sharp and cruel. Genos glared at it, accusation, a wave of nausea in his mouth.

Could it influence him? The curse claimed his body, yes, but his mind? Genos remembered nothing about the turns: he blacked out when the wolf took him, trapped asleep within himself. Could it put thoughts into his waking head, too, impulses and desires? The notion sickened him, made bile rise on his tongue.

He choked out a strained noise, fastened metal fingers around the trinket and tugged as hard as he could. The numb digits slipped and scratched, but the ring would not budge. It clung fast just above his knuckle, bit into his skin.

He had felt such whims before. This was not the first time the mage had wished for a turn in the heat of battle – and nor would it be the last. The wolf was strong, far stronger than he, fearless. It healed quickly and felt no pain, was an apex predator. In a fight, _anyone_ would want to control that kind of power.

But with Saitama here, looking at him, calmly telling him to stop before he tore his finger off, he was _ashamed_.

Through the fog of disgust, he felt Saitama wrap a hand around his elbow again. A dull tug at his other shoulder told him that the Nord had gripped both of his arms, though he only felt the squeeze in the right. Genos refused to look at him, too revolted by himself to meet his master’s eye.

“C’mon,” said that gentle voice. “You’re gonna freeze to death out here. Let’s go.”

Genos said nothing on the walk back to their campsite, only pausing to grab his cloak from where it lay draped over the fallen tree. From the troubled glance he threw over his shoulder, he knew that Saitama sensed something was wrong. The mage avoided his gaze, and shivered hard as he came down from the adrenaline.

At camp, Saitama climbed straight into his bedroll. Genos sat himself close to the fire, on the bare ground, bandaged himself with his back to his master. He tasted Saitama’s urge to comment in the air, but no voice broke the crackle of flames.

The auroras had faded during his time in the cave. The night seemed so much darker without them, tense and still, the fresh snowfall ceased and the wind’s howls also weaker than before.

Saitama watched Genos for a while, watched him slump and glare at the bejewelled hand in his lap. He wondered what the mage had seen to make him so upset, if he should say something to try and ease his anger. He had never been good at empathy, and firmly believed that other people’s problems were just that – _other people’s_.

Silence stretched between them, awkward and unpleasant, prickling at Saitama’s nape. When he could stand it no more, he sat up.

 “So,” he said. “I guess you got your wish.”

The blond turned his head toward him. He looked resigned, miserable, defeated.

The expression did not suit him. With a small smile, the best he could manage, Saitama shrugged. “Heard me Shout,” he said. An owl hooted somewhere nearby, and he leaned back on his elbows. “Funny. I’d thought you’d be raving about it. A ‘by the gods’, at least.”

Genos looked again to the fire, said nothing. After several more minutes of this, the soft breeze and distant birdcalls their only soundtrack, Saitama gave up on conversation and lay down.

“Master.”

He stopped mid-wriggle, lifted his head from the thin bedding to look at Genos. The mage had not turned around, broad shoulders drooped and head down.

“There is something you should know,” he said, somehow listless. “About me. If we are to travel together, then I would prefer not to keep secrets.”

With a rustle, Saitama sat up again. “Okay,” he said.

An ember arced to the ground beside the blond, glowed bright for a second before dimming in a curl of steam. “I lived a peaceful life, with my family,” said Genos. “We tended a shrine of Magnus, my people’s god of magic. We were small and poor, but happy. Our home was a modest village just outside of Wayrest, a glorious city-state in Starfall Bay.”

Saitama folded his arms atop his raised knees, hunched while he listened. He shrugged off impatience as best he could, let the boy speak his piece.

Genos still did not address him, a stoic silhouette before the massive campfire. “The sorcerer came to the bay from someplace far away,” he said. “He was an inventor, an alchemist, a showman, and our neighbours went to him for remedies and entertainment and his clever contraptions. He taught children of new magic, healed the elderly and the sick, and fed the poor.”

Saitama traced the folds in Genos’s robes, the lines where the fabric stretched between his shoulder blades. “Then he went mad,” he said.

“Then he went mad,” said Genos. He tensed, visible even from behind. “He destroyed everything, burned the town to ash. Killed everyone but my family, whose magic was too great for him to conquer. He captured all of them but me, because I hid in the rubble. My parents, sister, cousins. I could have run, gone to get help. Should have. Instead, I went after them alone. I thought I could rescue them by myself.”

“That was brave of you,” said Saitama.

“It was the foolish bullheadedness of a fifteen-year-old boy,” Genos shot back. He then let out a laugh; the sound cut sharp in the cold night, and his head drooped so far that his shoulders blocked it from Saitama’s view. “He captured me as well. He slipped this gods-forsaken thing onto my finger, and … and….”

Saitama felt a chill in his gut, swallowed hard. He did not like where this tale was headed. Quietly, he slid his legs free of the bedroll and stood. Genos did not move as he approached, hair jostled in the heat of the flames.

“He locked us in a room together.”

Saitama knelt beside him. He reached out, touched a grim hand to the blond’s shoulder. Genos let himself be twisted to face his mentor, red-rimmed eyes downcast as tears rolled down to gather on his chin.

“I killed them,” he said. “I killed them all.”

“No,” said Saitama, “you didn’t.”

At long last, Genos looked at him. He choked on a breath, bared his teeth. “I did,” he said. “I … I woke up, and they, they were–”

“The _wolf_ killed them,” said Saitama. He grasped the blond’s shoulder harder to drive his words home. “Not you. It’s not your fault.”

Genos trembled for a moment, searched the Nord’s unblinking stare. A great sob then wracked him, and he buried his face in his hands.

At once, Saitama wrapped his arms around the mage. The metal of Genos’s left shoulder burned dully cold under his chin, hair crushed to one cheek. He felt the teen quake against him, back arched to accommodate the limbs still desperate to hide his face.

“It’s not your fault,” he said again, over the string of quiet gasps that fought their way out of Genos. Saitama’s voice came soft: he found his airways restricted, tight with an emotion he could not place. Sympathy? Sorrow? Concern? “It’s not. Don’t blame yourself. Blame the sorcerer.”

He felt Genos writhe a little. “I do, gods, I do,” he bit out. The mage let out a gust of a sigh and tension bled from his frame, left him limp. Saitama heard his breathing slow, even out, and loosened the hug when he felt Genos press mismatched hands to his chest. “But I blame myself, as well.”

Saitama let him push their fronts apart, and his heart clenched at the sight of the mage. Genos’s eyes were still red, off to one side, but the tears had stopped. He wore a scowl, defiant, as if to deny that he had cried at all.

“Kid….”

“I did not tell you this to be reassured,” Genos spoke over him. “I simply wanted you to know. You are my teacher, but I cannot afford for us to become friends. Once I destroy the sorcerer with the knowledge you give me, I will join my family and beg their forgiveness.”

Saitama shook his head. An ache lanced through his core, confused and hurt. He cupped his hands around the blond’s jaw, leaned in so that he could not look away.

“Don’t say that,” he said. “Genos, listen to me, okay? You’re a good kid. A good man. You’re smart and strong and brave. _Don’t blame yourself_ for what that ring makes you do. You’re in a bad place, I get it. Just don’t … don’t give up, once it’s over. Even if you don’t wanna be friends with me – which is fine, by the way – there’s still plenty out there to live for.”

Genos did not blink, expression unreadable. He exhaled through his nose, and Saitama felt the warmth of it brush his mouth and chin. Once sure the blond had gotten the message, he released him and sat back. The slush crunched under him as he shifted his weight, backside damp from sitting in half-melted snow.

The mage wiped his cheeks dry. Without a word, he stood. He stalked across to his makeshift bedroll, kicked off his boots, and lay down. Saitama followed suit, wearily slithered into his own sleeping bag two feet away from Genos’s.

A film of cloud masked all but a few stars from view, the moons enveloped and auroras long faded. The snaps of fire engulfed the bluster of snow in the breeze, a steady roar that washed over the travellers. A serene soundtrack, organic and natural.

Without prompt, Genos spoke. “You misunderstand one thing, master.”

“What’s that…?” said Saitama, eyes closed, flat on his back.

A pause. “I said, I cannot afford for us to become friends,” came Genos’s sincere voice, “not that I do not want to.”

Saitama considered this, intent on the backs of his eyelids. “Get some rest, kid,” he said. “We’re almost to Winterhold. If we get a decent sleep and make good time tomorrow, we’ll reach the city by nightfall.”

“As you wish, master.”

Just as Saitama began to drift, something niggled in his gut. He frowned where he lay, hands linked atop his stomach. “Y’know,” he said, “nobody should have to live like you do … hating yourself, because of something you never asked for. It’s not fair.”

He felt Genos’s gaze on him. “I suppose the same could apply to you, master,” he said. “You did not ask to be Dragonborn. Yet you are, and you isolate yourself because of it. A life you do not want. What do you tell yourself is worth living for?”

Saitama hummed in thought. “I dunno,” he said, muffled as unconsciousness threatened to claim him. “Fishing’s not bad. Septims, spiced wine, pretty girls and guys. And it’s … nice, helping folks like you. Folks who don’t chew me out for lending a hand.”

“I … see.”

Faintly, he thought he could hear the scratchings of a quill. With a murmur, Saitama rolled onto his side and fell asleep.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ifQ3JRS4gqc)
> 
> **Context notes** :  
> * **Last Seed** is the eighth month of the year in the _Elder Scrolls_ universe. 4E 204 is the year; the 204th year of the 4th Era.  
>  * The location Genos explores is named **Bronze Water Cave**. In the game, the back passage he discovers (with the giant statue) is only accessible through the Thieves Guild questline. If we assume that only the player (thus, the Dragonborn) can unlock this location, this means that Saitama has been there before _as a member of the guild himself_. And, as part of that questline, Dragonborn!Saitama has met Nocturnal - the Daedric Prince of night, darkness, and luck!  
>  * In Skyrim, **snow bears** are bigger and more powerful than regular or cave bears. They stick to the northern end of the country, around Winterhold and the coast.  
>  * _Faas Ru Maar_ is the 'Dismay' Shout. Its individual words mean Fear, Run, Terror.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	4. Pieces of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Content warnings_ \- corpses

*

 

Skyrim’s climate was far from temperate. Genos knew this, had known so before he dared to cross the border three months ago. However, even with his new furs, he had underestimated just how cold the icy region could get.

Bright daylight caught dazzling eddies of fallen white, powder lifted by stalwart coils of wind. The whistles of a wood thrush graced the crunch of the travellers’ footfalls, melodic, each step laboured and heavy on the steep, snowy slopes of Wayward Pass.

Saitama said that this natural stone archway was the quickest and safest way through the mountains, into Winterhold. If this were the case, Genos feared for the alternatives: the climb had been arduous, the rocks slippery with slush. His calves ached as the ground finally – mercifully – levelled out, and he doubled over to catch his breath.

Old bones hung from the roof of the pass. Their music rang unsettling, rattling against one another in the sharp breeze. A tattered banner flapped ahead, also strung from the roof, heavy with icicles. Saitama trudged forth, tireless, onward to a pedestal at the right wall of the tunnel. He came to a sudden halt before the altar, cast blank eyes over the ancient skeleton that rested there.

“You wanna stop a minute,” he said, “pay your respects?”

Confused, Genos straightened up. Stepping closer, he saw that the altar was a shrine to Arkay. A handful of crisp, colourful, frost-bitten flowers had been left around the skeleton, humble offerings, the table laden with weapons and armour and Septims. The shrine itself was smaller than he expected, a carved stone sphere within an octagon. He sensed quiet power from it, the presence of the Divines.

Throat raw, Genos stood before the shrine. He brushed a hand over the corner of the table, felt its chill bite his fingers as if it were made of ice. Uncomfortable, he glanced back to Saitama.

“Is there anyone you wish to pray for, master?”

Saitama looked ahead. “I don’t believe in the gods,” he said.

With a curious frown, Genos knelt at the altar and bowed his head.

Saitama wandered aside, arms crossed. Calmness settled over him as he gazed out of the passageway, over the neighbouring territory of Winterhold. Mountains and glaciers hid the city itself, a sprawling stretch of white and blue and grey.

He knew the Divines were real. Of course they were: they had spoken to him more than once, visited his dreams. Their chief deity had bestowed him with the blood of dragons, made him what he was.

He knew they existed. He simply chose not to put his faith in them.

While Genos prayed for those he had lost, Saitama thought on the Divines. None could understand their choices, their reasoning. The Daedric Princes’ motives were also blurred, but at least they each sought power. The Divines – the Aedra – were unfathomable.

Saitama shuffled a boot in the snow. Not for the first time, he questioned why Akatosh had chosen _him_ to be the Dragonborn. There were so many better candidates, better men and women than he. Even Genos, who was not a Nord – he was powerful, intelligent, and determined, but with the humanity to feel guilt and make good judgements. Saitama was strong, true, but doubted this alone could be enough to earn the favour of Akatosh.

He wondered if he would still think this way, had he not trained with the Greybeards. The monks had meant the best for him, taught him all they knew of the Voice. Their Ways were gentle, benign, lofty as the mountain on which they dwelled. They strived for enlightenment, for mastery of the Thu’um, detached themselves from the troubled world below.

But it seemed Saitama had taken their teachings too much to heart. He had grown _so_ detached that he could not feel as he once did.

A crunch of boots lured Saitama from his thoughts, and he straightened from where he leaned against the wall. He answered Genos’s polite stare with a passive one, and adjusted his rucksack to head off again.

They emerged beneath a clear, vivid sky. The ground sloped down, toward the off-gold rooftops of a Dwemer ruin nestled in the mountains. Alftand, Saitama recalled its name. He took point, eyes on the pale sea beyond, descended between Dwarven towers and a blizzard-buried campsite. He helped Genos down over a steep icy drop, then led him southeast around a much larger ravine in the frozen earth. Ice coated everything, bright and gleaming in the sun, tracks of snow like ribbons from glacial peaks.

After a while, Saitama slowed their pace to a crawl.

They were lost.

The lack of landmarks left him disorientated, white in every direction, and he revolved in place to take in the scenery. He spotted the ocean again, scattered in cracks through the wall of trees. That way must have been north. Genos watched him with intent, silent and cautious while Saitama glanced around. The Nord started forward, passed an outcrop of rocks laced with greenish ore, but stopped once more beside a toppled bough.

Genos jogged to catch up, boots kicking up a spray of powder. “Perhaps we should head uphill,” he said, and pointed to a nearby knoll. “A higher vantage point may help.”

Saitama scratched at his nape. “Sorry.”

They climbed, scrabbled over loose stones and roots for a better view of their surroundings. Partway up the hill, Saitama noticed that Genos was shivering behind him. The mage’s fingers slipped on the rocks, movements clumsy and hurried, breaths shallow.

Were the new furs not enough? “Hey,” he called back, “can’t you heat yourself up? Fire magic, and all?”

Genos glanced up at him in surprise, as if he had not noticed his own discomfort. “These clothes are quite warm already, master,” he said. “Thank you for your concern.”

Saitama hauled himself onto the peak of the hillock, and turned to help Genos. The mage grabbed his hand for assistance, scaled the crest – and all but fell into Saitama’s chest.

The Nord held him fast under the elbows. “Need a break…?”

Genos hunched over, clutched at Saitama’s leathers for support. He looked ill, wide-eyed and nauseous. With a start, he jerked his head up to fix his mentor with a nervous grimace. The ring glinted on his finger, foreboding.

“Not … exactly,” he said, voice tight.

 _Oh_.

Saitama’s features hardened. Quickly, he scanned the area. He saw several bears dotted about the landscape, none close enough to pose a threat, sabre cats in the distance. In truth, he was more concerned about the terrain itself; there were plenty of ravines to fall into and cliffs to tumble off, no boundaries to stop a certain furry beast from escaping him.

Still, he could think of worse places to transform.

“How long?” he said.

Genos straightened, unsteady on his feet, swallowed hard. Sweat had beaded on his brow, shoulders tense under his layers. “Not long,” he said. “A minute, at most.”

Saitama’s focus caught on what appeared to be a cavern entrance, metres ahead, marked by a short, crude tent made of bone and chitin. “Any objections to hiding in a Falmer cave,” he said, “where you can’t give me the slip?”

Jaw set, Genos followed his sightline. “None.”

Without further discussion, they broke into a jog.

Genos lagged behind, breathless and gasping, but Saitama took his wrist to ensure he did not fall. As they neared the cave, however, the Nord realised he had made a mistake: the entrance he had spotted was a mere shadow on the rocks, cast by the blinding glow of the ice. The real entrance was set into the ground, a hole in the earth that led straight down, with a floor that shimmered as if flooded.

The entrance looked deep. Saitama released his student and dashed to it, peered down into the dark. While he felt sure the wolf would not be able to climb out on its own, he doubted regular-Genos could either.

Regardless, there was no time to look for an alternative.

The mage fell to his knees behind Saitama, choked and whined as smoky black shrouded his body. The gasps became growls, low and rough, like thunder rolling over the glacier.

Saitama made an impulsive choice. He grabbed the werewolf mid-transformation, dragged it over the edge, and shoved it into the pit.

The wolf hit the bottom with a heavy _splash_. Saitama heard it grunt, shake itself in the water, saw its fierce eyes flash up at him through the gloom. It did not roar, did not snarl, but bared fangs and glowered. Its breaths rattled out to him, guttural and slow, threatening. With a huff of hot air, the wolf lost interest in the Nord; it glared about the chamber into which it had fallen, sniffed the air, and lumbered out of sight. He could hear it wading around, snorts sharp and loud.

Up at the rim of the entrance, Saitama let out a sigh of relief. Fortune, for once, seemed to have smiled upon him: all he had to do was sit here and wait for Genos to change back, then help him climb from the pit. Easy.

Easy, except for how it sounded like the wolf was moving farther away.

He knelt at the opening, and listened. The splashes quickened, faded to silence, and he gulped. He had assumed that the cavity was a simple hollow in the ground, a contained space, like a burial chamber. This should not have given the wolf room to run as it had – not far enough that he could no longer hear it.

With a muttered curse, Saitama dropped down into the pit.

The frigid pool swallowed his feet to the ankles, seeped in through the cracks in his boots. It stung his toes, the chill dulled by his hardy Nordic blood. He squinted to adjust; a tunnel stretched ahead, cast blue-green by the faint light of glowing mushrooms. Teeth clenched, Saitama waded forward. He followed the snakelike passageway, out of the water and onto moist stone, walked his hands along the damp walls. The stench of Falmer hung everywhere, rotten, rats and mould and fungus, stagnant.

The tunnel opened onto a makeshift campsite. Its fire burned low, unattended for some time. Moving forward, he soon identified the reason; he counted five corpses about the chamber, bandits. Their bodies lay pierced by crude arrows, undisturbed, but Saitama noticed fresh paw prints in the blood.

Werewolves had no interest in the dead, it seemed.

He tracked the prints until they ran dry, led him into a narrower tunnel than the first. A distant screech – tortured and hollow – made him pause. He heard far-off movement, shifting rocks, faint wind. There _was_ another exit, somewhere far ahead. How good was the wolf’s sense of smell? Saitama felt the temperature drop as he advanced, noticeable even to him.

Another corpse, splayed on the ground. This one was fresh, twisted, its skin an eerie shade of grey in the half-light. Falmer. Saitama stepped over it, willed his eyes to skirt around the claw marks. It had been an archer, but the bow still hung hooked from its back. The wolf was _fast_ , for the elf to have failed to draw its weapon in time.

In a way, he was glad they had stumbled across a _Falmer_ cave. The deformed elves had lost their sentience a long time ago, warped by the cruelty of the dwarves. They were no different to animals, feral, ruthless. No-one would mourn or even notice their deaths, like a massacre of insects or vermin. If anything, the wolf had done Skyrim a favour – made this cave a safer place for any future travellers who happened upon it.

The tunnel became a constructed corridor, pale stone and yellowish metal, Dwemer architecture. Made sense, he thought. The Falmer often, if not always, dwelled in Dwarven ruins, and Alftand was only a stone’s throw across the snowfields. Except, he noticed, the hallway seemed somehow crooked; the farther he moved along it, the more gravity seemed to tilt. The ruin must have been partially collapsed. Soon Saitama fought to keep balance, bodyweight pulling forward with the incline. He made a careful descent along ledges and steaming pipes, dropped to avoid making noise. A fall of this distance would not hurt him, but he did not want to attract the wolf in such a cramped space.

He edged around pressure plates on the floor, ones he knew from experience triggered whirling blades. Clumps of black fur slid beneath his feet; the wolf must have set off the trap. The passageway broke off through a channel of ice, and again into a large room whose tall doorway leaned open. More mangled Falmer littered the chamber, along with their giant rat and spider pets. While he looted the bodies for Septims – because, why not? They were already dead – Saitama tried to ignore how some of the corpses look chewed-on.

As he passed through the doorway, into a firelit chamber filled with cobwebs and the clanks of Dwemer machinery, Saitama wondered what Genos experienced when he changed. He knew of the pain, of course – the mage hardly laughed when the cursed ring overtook him – but, otherwise? Could he still think? He wove between cluttered huts and mounds of insect eggs, looked to the high ceiling and its dangling roots like luminescent tendrils. Genos had explained that he ‘woke up’ afterward, as if he had no memory of what transpired.

He emerged into a huge, open chamber. Its roof glowed eerie blue, with active pistons the size of dragons crossed over its raised walkways. He stopped counting the fallen Falmer at this point; not remembering such brutality was a small blessing within the curse.

Saitama stopped dead.

Vicious sounds met his ears, from higher up: machinery, fierce steam, heavy movement and snarls. The wolf was close, and it was not alone. Metallic stomping punctured the racket, heavy swings of some giant weapon, and the slice of claws through air. Saitama fell into a run, scrambled up the misty stairways on hands and feet so as not to slip in the gloom.

A loud roar, and something slammed into a wall. Rock splintered, tumbled in chunks to the ground, and Saitama leaped the top three steps onto what looked like a raised arena.

The first thing he saw was a flash of gold – a huge, hulking, cruel-faced mechanical man, with clouds of steam billowing from its shoulders and elbows. Instead of hands, its arms ended in a Dwarven warhammer and equally massive battleaxe. A Centurion, the biggest and most dangerous type of Animunculi the Dwemer had left behind.

While Saitama watched, the werewolf – half the Centurion’s height – tackled the automaton flat. Top-heavy, the Centurion fell with a _crash_ that shook the ground – and the werewolf tore into it, ripped away great strips of metal and armour.

The Nord could only stare, astounded by the wolf’s brute strength. He watched the Centurion spew steam into its face, watched it knock the beast back and struggle to pick itself up again. The werewolf skidded across the floor and roared, long and loud and strained to force out every ounce of air from its lungs.

They clashed again, ferocious in the murk. Saitama let out a whistle when the wolf – in a great spray of sparks and steam – tore the construct’s axe-arm clean off. The Centurion landed a solid blow to the beast’s side, sent it rolling away again.

Something was wrong. The werewolf shook its head as if dazed, hunched over, tail tucked under and ears flat. It let out a strangled noise – and suddenly the black of its fur darkened into mist, like a solid cloud. A smaller body then curled forward; Genos crumpled out of the smoke, fell onto all fours, windswept and disoriented.

He snapped alert at the Centurion’s footfalls. The thing towered over him, raised its arm, and he scrambled in shock. Saitama was there in an instant: his hip caught the hammer-blow meant for the mage, and he punched clean through the construct’s chest. He tore out the spinning dynamo at its core, its hot red power source, and the Centurion keeled over, dead. The cavernous room shook at the fall of its massive body, drowned in abrupt silence and calm.

Saitama let out a breath. He dropped the core with a _clang_ , wiped his oily hand on his front, and turned to face where Genos knelt. “You good?”

Genos gaped at him for a second. He then sighed into his hands, the noise one of exhaustion. Saitama found a smile upon his own face, small and full of pity, and he helped the mage find his feet.

Sprawling pipes led to an elevator at the rear of the room. He hooked Genos’s arm around his shoulders and walked him to it, kicked the lever to carry them up out of the ruin. The lift opened into a small room with a barred, wooden door; the cave beyond smelled of fresh wind, dusted in snow and the sound of dripping water.

“Wait,” said Genos, his hand fisting against Saitama’s neck. Saitama stopped to look at him, concerned to find the blond’s head down and his stance slack. “Wait, I … I need a moment….”

Clusters of snowberries grew at the foot of a boulder, halfway between the elevator and the cavern’s exit to Skyrim. Saitama lowered Genos to the rock, where the mage slumped over with his hands in his hair. He breathed hard, expression hidden from view, but was no longer shaking. Saitama crossed his arms, gazed out of the cave, wondered how much time they had before twilight began to descend over Winterhold.

“Are you injured?”

The Nord jumped, and surprised to find Genos watching him. Confusion lined Saitama’s brow, and he cocked his head. “ _Me_?”

“Your side,” said Genos. He sat up, features patient. “The Centurion struck you.”

Saitama blinked. Ah, he thought, the hammer. He had forgotten. When he pressed a hand to his ribs, a faint ache bloomed under his fingers. Dragon blood made him sturdier than the average man, but not indestructible.

“Nah, just a bruise,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Something cynical overcame Genos’s face, and he motioned his mentor closer. Wary, Saitama approached.

Genos reached out his human arm, and soft white light enveloped his hand. A gentle hum pulsed in the air, the sound of magic. He touched his glowing palm to Saitama’s sore side: warmth bled through the Nord’s leathers, soaked into him, thrummed through the flesh and muscle and into the bone. It filled him with heat so pleasant that he groaned, closed his eyes without meaning to. It felt _good_ , restful, soothed aches he did not know he carried.

All too soon, Genos pulled his hand away. Saitama blinked awake and touched the spot, savoured the buzz left behind.

“Huh,” he said. The ache, weak as it had been, was gone. “I didn’t peg you for Restoration magic.”

Genos frowned at his palm. “I know one spell,” he said, “and, I am not skilled with it. My interests lie in offence.”

Saitama made to cross his arms again, but let them fall slack. Flecks of snow glanced off his clothes, carried into the cave by a stray breeze. The shape of the walls curbed most sounds from the world outside, the loudest an occasional shrill from passing hawks.

“You ever think about learning more?” he said. At Genos’s raised eyebrow, he shrugged. “Not offensive stuff, I mean … other kinds of magic.”

Genos pondered his words. “My sister once told me of Illusion and Alteration spells that could prove useful in a fight,” he said. He shook his head. “But, I prefer to attack directly. Fear and paralysis spells are situational, and do not work on all opponents. I would rather focus on those that affect all foes, and kill as fast as possible.”

Saitama considered this. He shifted his weight, tugged at his rucksack straps. “You know,” he said, “fighting’s not all about killing, Genos. Sometimes, you’ve gotta show mercy. Like when I scared off that bear last night – it was a predator, didn’t know any better. Didn’t mean anything by attacking us. I wouldn’t have gained anything from killing it, so I let it go. We’re still alive, and it can keep on doing its bear thing. Everyone’s happy.”

The mage’s stare flicked between his eyes for a moment, then to the wall in reflection. “Master is a wise man,” he said.

As nice as the compliment was, Saitama felt a twinge of discomfort. “I really think you should enrol at the College,” he said. “You could learn a lot more there than from me.”

The blond scowled. “We have discussed this, master,” he said. “I do not have time for banal lessons and lectures. The mad sorcerer is in Skyrim – for now. He could move on while I waste my time in a classroom, and then I would have to begin my search all over again.”

“What about _after_ you’ve dealt with him?” said Saitama.

Genos seemed to falter, as if the question had caught him off-guard. His brow grew heavy, and he looked away. “We have discussed that, also,” he said, muted. “I will speak no more of this.”

Saitama sighed. He crossed the cave to a second boulder, brushed snow from its flat top, and sat down. Genos did not follow his movements, angled toward the exit with tension in his frame.

The Nord stretched, dug knuckles into the muscles at the base of his spine. “So,” he said, “was your sister a strong mage, too?”

Genos turned his head – not to meet his mentor’s eye, but enough to show that he was listening. “Discussing the dead does them no favours,” he said. “Forgive me, but I would rather not speak of my past, either.”

Saitama hummed in thought. Perhaps there were some things he could teach the youth, after all.

He leaned back on his rock. “I don’t have siblings,” he said, breathy and clear in the hushed cavern. “I was born in Markarth, in the Reach. Don’t much remember what my house or parents were like … I’ve got an awful memory. I used to brawl with people in taverns for money, so getting hit in the head a lot probably didn’t help.”

That did the trick. Genos shimmied around on his perch, revolved to face the Nord with an intrigued expression. “Master can be badly injured?” he said, reverent.

Saitama flinched. “W-well, it was a long time ago,” he said, “before I knew what I was. Before I trained with the Greybeards, I was just like anybody else. I could bleed, get beat up.”

Genos’s shock was tangible, and unnerving.

The Nord stared at his own knees, gripped them through the leathers with both hands. “I can’t remember what it’s like,” he murmured. “Pain, I mean. It’s been so long since I really _felt_ it.”

“You did not feel the Centurion hit you?” said Genos.

Saitama rolled one shoulder in its socket. “I feel the impact,” he said, “but … dull. Like a breeze, or … or when a leaf bumps into your face. You might not even notice.”

The quiet swelled, tainted by the howling wind, and Saitama realised two things in the stillness. One, he had gotten off-topic – and two, he had not talked about himself at such length for as long as he could remember. He had not spoken this much about _anything_ , outside of these last few days with Genos. Most folks he met on the road did not care for idle conversation, and that suited him just fine. Though … there was something nice about this, about having company who cared for what he had to say.

He sat up. “My point is, you should hold on to your good memories,” he told the mage. Genos listened without interruption, without any trace of disinterest. Saitama waved a hand. “Life’s messy. You’re bound to have bad memories, too, and they’re heavier than the good ones. But they get you through … the good helps you carry the weight of the bad.”

Genos shuffled his feet, smoothed the lap of his robes absently. “I understand,” he said. “Thank you, master. I will think on this.”

Saitama nodded. He nodded a second time, with more force, and felt pride bubble in his chest. With renewed energy, and a rattle of his backpack, he hopped upright and set his fists on his hips. Genos stared, taken aback by his grin.

“Ready to head out?”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KOud7nOIdds)
> 
> **Context notes** :  
> * **Arkay** (AKA Ark’ay or The Mortals’ God) is one of the Divines, deity of the Cycle of Birth and Death. His priests tend to the dead; people leave gifts at his shrines and pray for their ancestors and loved ones.  
>  * **Akatosh** (the Dragon God of Time) is the chief deity of the Nine Divines. He represents endurance, invincibility, and everlasting legitimacy. Akatosh chooses the Dragonborn; he gives the dragon blood to favoured individuals.  
>  * The area explored here is called the **Sightless Pit** , a Falmer settlement which leads into the Temble of Xrib. The player doesn’t actually encounter a Dwarven Centurion here, but I needed something to show off the strength of wolf!Genos.  
> * The **Falmer** are twisted descendents of Snow Elves, an all-but-extinct race whom the Dwemer (Dwarves) took and abused as slaves centuries ago. The Falmer are blind, merciless, and feral, classed as monsters.  
>  * **Animunculi** are dangerous automatons left behind by the Dwemer. They patrol Dwarven ruins throughout Skyrim – a testament to Dwemer technology, in that they still function almost four-thousand years after the Dwarves’ disappearance. Genos's mechanical left arm is that of another kind of Animunculi, a [Dwarven Sphere](https://hydra-media.cursecdn.com/skyrim.gamepedia.com/thumb/0/0f/DwarvenSphere.png/300px-DwarvenSphere.png?version=489d5c0541dc608c8dceb853a31f1b9e) (though without the crossbow).  
>  * The spell Genos uses on Saitama is called **Healing Hands**.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	5. Elder Knowledge

*

 

“Look, over there! Told you I knew the way.”

Bowed against the blizzard, the mage glanced up. He traced Saitama’s pointing finger, down the slope to a channel of rock and bare trees ahead. The corner of a shabby building loomed through the whiteout, run-down and weathered. Icicles clung to its eaves, its banners frozen stiff. A few more structures came into view as the travellers neared, each less impressive than the last. The reddish sky, smothered by blue-grey clouds, drained the settlement of colour, the night still and eerie.

Winterhold was not what Genos had expected.

This footpath had seen fair traffic, a slushy trail of prints and horse tracks worn into the ground. The wanderers’ own footfalls crunched and creaked with every step, the deep snow muffling faint wolf howls and owl calls. Genos had never seen so much white, never felt such a bitter wind on his face, able to see no farther than ten feet through the flurry.

They passed the Jarl’s longhouse, stumbled over brazen chickens and through snowberry patches. The local guards seemed indifferent to the chill, patrolling with their heavy furs and torches. As he and Saitama passed the tavern, whose dull sign read _the Frozen Hearth_ , the mage noticed a spark in his mentor’s eye.

“Master seems excited,” he said.

Saitama met his gaze expectantly. “Sure, I’m starving,” he said. He then looked ahead, gestured to a nondescript building at the roadside. “I wanna stop by Birna’s Oddments first, but then we’re getting supper in the inn. Last time I was here, they had Argonian Bloodwine – gods, kid, you’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“Alcohol?” said Genos, dubious. He caught his hood before the wind could blow it back, patted ice from his fringe. “At this hour?”

Saitama let out a chuckle. “Welcome to Skyrim.”

Genos could not spot a sign outside the shop, but Saitama made his way inside without hesitation. Warmth washed over them, the smell of cooked rabbit from the pot at the fire, pungent herbs and garlic strung over a display case by the counter. The mage’s interest found the shelves at the back of the room, stocked with thick books and skulls and alchemical plants.

“I would prefer to keep a clear head in the College,” he said, distracted by the magical wares. He remembered himself enough to hide his metal hand, not wanting to draw attention.

The pawnbroker, a fair-haired Nord woman, eyed her customers warily, hawklike while Saitama shrugged out of his rucksack. He dumped his pack on the floor and hunched to paw through it, unfazed by the shopkeeper’s frown.

“You’ve got ’til morning to sleep it off,” he told Genos, who stood fixated by the books. Saitama straightened up, laden with the spare pelts and loot he had gathered on their journey. The giant at Tumble Arch Pass had carried a handful of gems, precious stones worth a small fortune. “It’s too late to head up there now, they’ll be asleep already. Let’s spend the night – I know the innkeeper, he’ll rent us rooms for cheap.”

Genos furrowed his brow. Saitama offered the loot to Birna, who said that a ‘hello’ would have been nice. Genos watched the exchange of goods for coin, disheartened by his mentor’s lacking sense of urgency.

Saitama paused in the counting of his Septims, and cast the mage a thoughtful look. “You could always head up there yourself, y’know,” he said. “You don’t have to stick with me. I got you to Winterhold, as promised. So, if you wanna part ways … I’m not sure what else I can teach you.”

The thought of separation chilled Genos more than the wind, whistling in through cracks in the wooden walls. He shook his head. “The wolf is a danger to no-one with master around,” he said. “I have been on my quest for four years already. I can wait one more night.”

The shopkeeper chuckled, busy folding her purchased pelts. “Wolves, huh?” she said. Saitama stowed his money away, indifferent, but Genos bit his lip. Did they know of werewolves in Winterhold? Birna set the furs aside, and leaned over the counter. “It’s not every day we get adventurers out here. You look like men without fear. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in taking a dangerous trip for me?”

Saitama drew in a deep breath, exasperation written into every line of his face.

Sensing his reluctance, Genos spoke. “My master is a busy man,” he said. “He has no time to be running errands.”

Birna flashed him a curious smirk. She then bent down, stooped to grab something from behind the counter. With a solid _clunk_ , she placed a coral-coloured artefact onto the table. Genos’s demeanour changed at once. It looked like the foot of a dragon, larger than his hand, with three odd symbols carved into the sole. The mage hovered over the strange object, studied its pronged claws and elaborate markings in fascination. Saitama donned his rucksack with a sigh.

Birna leaned again on the counter. “I was told this thing would lead me to great treasure,” she said, “but it never panned out. To be honest, I don’t even care anymore. I don’t have time to go delving into ancient ruins. I’ll sell it to you for fifty gold, and then it’s your problem.”

Genos’s gaze snapped up to hers, then Saitama’s. Despite himself, he felt a twinge of excitement – exploring ancient ruins in search of treasure? While Septims did not interest the blond, it clearly mattered to his teacher. Genos fumbled inside his robes for his purse, but Saitama stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” said the Nord, “not interested.”

He steered Genos out of the shop, into the blizzard and back up the path toward the tavern. Genos kept his confusion to himself, questions burning in his throat as they climbed the creaky steps to the entrance. He heard music, a woman singing within, laughter and muffled murmurs. Saitama poked the heavy door ajar, and slipped inside without a backward glance.

Large tables lined the walls of the Frozen Hearth, a vast fire pit in the centre of the floor and several rooms off to the sides. The space smelled of ale, hot food and bodies and old timber. With the innkeeper busy, talking to a mage-looking elf, Saitama and Genos loitered by the fire. Genos lowered his hood, grateful of shelter.

“Master,” said the blond, when he could contain his questions no more. Saitama hummed, glazed eyes buried in the flames. “Why did you not allow me to purchase the dragon claw?”

Saitama cocked his head, still focused on the fire. “Did you hear how much she wanted for it?” he said. The bard’s music cut off, and the Nord glanced back to see the woman reach for her ale on a breather between songs.

“Yes,” said Genos, “but, if it does lead to great treasure, as the merchant said–”

Saitama’s expression grew difficult for the mage to read. “So what,” he said. He set his hands on his hips. “Look, kid. I’ve got enough gold for a few good meals and a warm bed, maybe some new boots if I see any. That’s all I want.”

Genos pondered this.

The elf moved away from the counter, retreated to the farthest table from the bard and her lute. The scarce handful of other patrons seemed content to chat amongst themselves, their mutters lost to the roaring fire. Saitama approached the bar, apprentice in tow.

The innkeeper was yet another Nord, blond and burly. He grinned at the sight of Saitama. “Well, well,” he said, gruff. “Not seen you in a long time. Listen, I appreciate what you did for Ranmir, way back when. If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

While Saitama floundered, not used to such a pleasant greeting, Genos scrutinised the stranger. He seemed reputable, if only for his respect for Saitama.

“Was hoping for a bed and supper, Dagur,” said Saitama, and he scratched at his cheek. “Just for tonight.”

“Sure, sure,” said Dagur. He reached for his book of numbers and quill, from behind the counter. “Two rooms. What can I get y–”

“One room,” Genos spoke over him. A surprised silence flared between his mentor and the innkeeper, and he added, “please.”

He felt Saitama’s stare bore into the side of his face. If Dagur made any assumptions about the request, he kept them to himself. “All right,” he said, and hunched to scribble in his book. “One room. How about food?”

A touch flustered, for a reason Genos could not identify, Saitama fumbled with his coin purse. “Whatever’s cheapest,” said the bald Nord. “Ale and two of everything, up to … thirty Septims. Minus the cost of the room.”

He set the money on the counter.

“All right,” Dagur said again. He closed his book, and motioned to attract a redheaded woman across the tavern. She abandoned her sweeping of the cracked stone floor, irritable as she passed where the bard stood tuning her lute. Dagur leaned to catch Saitama and Genos’s attentions, and smiled. “Haran will sort you out. Grab a table.”

Saitama shuffled away with a word of thanks, but Genos stayed put. He fixed Dagur with a firm look, then pulled out his own purse.

“If you have it, I will take two bottles of Argonian Bloodwine.”

Saitama stopped dead. He whirled around, wide-eyed, all colour drained from his face. “N-no, it’s expensive–”

Dagur cut him off with a hearty laugh. He stepped out from behind the counter, and clapped Genos on the shoulder with force enough to make him stumble. “I like you,” he said. “Got a taste for the good stuff, eh? Your friend’s right, though. It’s imported, all the way from Black Marsh. A hundred Septims. Per bottle.”

Genos handed over the money before Saitama could choke out another protest.

The redheaded woman, Haran, gathered the money and headed off into the back room, though not before planting a quick kiss to Dagur’s cheek. “Make yourselves at home,” said the blond Nord.

With a much lighter purse, and a total lack of concern for the fact, Genos crossed to an empty table. It was only when he perched at its hard bench that he noticed Saitama had lagged behind; his teacher’s head hung on his neck, eyes evasive. His posture screamed of distress, even more visible when he shed his rucksack.

Genos removed his cloaks, and felt an abrupt stab of panic. “Ah, I assumed …” he trailed off, hot with anxiety. “Master, are you uncomfortable about sharing a room? I thought it would be best for us to stay close, in case the wolf–”

 “It’s fine,” Saitama spoke over him. He sat down so fast beside Genos that the bench groaned, and he grasped the edge of the table. “I get it. You just … you didn’t have to get the wine, kid. It’s … it’s not cheap.”

Before he could voice that he did not mind, that Saitama deserved to enjoy himself, Genos sensed eyes on his back. He twisted in place to find the hooded elf focused on them; his fellow mage was none too subtle about staring, and gave a start when detected. Genos then saw movement at the edge of his vision, and looked up to watch Haran emerge from the back room.

She approached with armfuls of plates: rabbit haunches, baked potatoes, wedges of goat cheese, and two large apple pies. Dagur followed; he set down two large, scratched green bottles while his wife arranged the food. He gave Genos a wide grin, and the couple wandered off to leave their patrons in peace. Nearby, the bard began to pluck at her lute again. The tune wavered, aimless, a test of new strings.

Any concerns Saitama had about money vanished the instant he sealed his lips around the bottle. He took a long drought, moaned into the drink. Genos sniffed at his own beverage. The scent burned his nostrils, spiced and fiery, and he winced. A glance aside revealed Saitama’s eager expression, and – cautiously – he brought the wine to his mouth.

The heat of it sparked on his tongue, scorched his insides all the way to his stomach, and he gasped. The pull of air made him splutter harder, and he wheezed into his palms with streaming eyes.

Saitama patted the mage on the back, nudged the plate of potatoes toward him. “Stick to milk, next time,” he said, in an I-told-you-so sort of voice.

Genos coughed his approval. In the background, the bard began to play: a slow tune, somehow both mournful and full of hope.

“ _Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior’s heart–_ ”

Saitama went rigid in his seat. Hairline fractures split the wood under his fingers, and he let go of the table before he caused irreparable damage. As furtive as possible, he twisted to shoot a glance at the bard. She seemed oblivious to his embarrassment, strumming at her instrument with a peaceful smile.

“ _–I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes–_ ”

Genos blinked. Still breathless, he faced the woman in wonder. He then looked to Saitama, awestruck.

Saitama dived into his wine.

They ate in silence for a while, worked their way through the mounds of food at a steady pace. The other patrons seemed to dismiss the song, spoke over it, and Saitama grabbed Genos’s forearm to stop him from demanding they listen.

In truth, he felt glad that no-one cared for the melody. He had not heard it in many months; on the rare occasion someone requested that particular song, most musicians refused. He felt bad for her, for ignoring her, but hoped that the lack of interest would encourage her to sing other ballads in the future.

After three years, no-one believed in the Dragonborn anymore – and that suited him fine.

The bard sang on, smiled through to the final line. Genos applauded once she fell silent – but Saitama stayed focused on his meal, head down.

He ended up finishing not only his wine, but Genos’s as well. He was not quite drunk, but content from a warm buzz in his gut and head. Feeling heavy with meat and potato and cheese, he pushed the apple pie toward Genos. The blond tugged the platter closer without a word, already full but determined not to let his mentor’s money go to waste.

In that moment, when Genos tucked into the pie, Saitama realised how handsome the mage was.

It hit him suddenly, a revelation, and he found himself spellbound. He gawped, at the blond’s angular jaw, at his wind-rumpled hair, at the movements of his throat as he ate, and Saitama wondered how it had taken him this long to notice.

Perhaps that was untrue. He _had_ noticed, peripherally – but never stopped to appreciate it. The blond was _striking_. Genos failed to recognise Saitama’s stare, busy with the pie, stoic and unruffled.

Saitama blinked from his daze, and looked to the bottle in his hand as if it held the mysteries of the Divines. Argonians knew their alcohol.

The hired room was small and cramped, with a bare floor and single bed. Its thatched ceiling barred most of the cold from outside, slanted and stale, old pelts on the walls and a deer’s skull mounted over the headboard. A small table, chair, and wardrobe had been crammed into the space, musty smells and clean bedding.

Saitama slept better that night than the last time they shared a bed, if only because he was full of good food and wine.

Dawn broke over Winterhold, crisp and white, the pale sky clear and frosty. Last night’s blizzard had blocked the College from view; Genos craned his neck to take it in when they left the inn, to admire the fort-like building that nestled in a glacier off the coast. Saitama seemed unimpressed, not at all hung-over despite the amount he had drunk. He led his student through town, onto the imposing walkway that linked the College to the mainland.

After leaving the inn, they had stopped again at Birna’s Oddments. Saitama bought the new boots he had sorely needed, and Genos purchased an entire new wardrobe. While his robes boosted his magical abilities, they were also threadbare – torn and stitched back together from the injuries he had sustained over years of drifting. His new fur armour made a complete contrast to his formless robes, metal arm hidden by a bracer. He kept the cloak Saitama had sewn for him as an extra layer; there would be no freezing to death in _that_ getup, the Nord had said.

Internally, Saitama was surprised to notice the youth’s musculature. The robes had done a good job of hiding his body shape, save for the broad shoulders. This time, Saitama did not have the excuse of tipsiness to explain his lingering stares.

Up the steep footpath, under the first ice-wreathed arch of the walkway, a golden-skinned elf stood in wait. She was a severe-looking woman, arms crossed where she watched their approach.

“Halt,” she said, tone educated and proper. “This is the College of Winterhold, a sanctuary for mages in Skyrim. A place of learning, and arcane knowledge. Few come here without good reason.”

Saitama rubbed his nose. “Faralda, right?” he said. “We – well, _he_ , needs to talk to the guy in charge. Can we come in?”

“Perhaps,” said the elf. “What business do you have with the Arch-Mage?”

When Saitama failed to reply, Genos glanced to find his expression encouraging. The blond stepped forward. “I am looking for someone,” he said. “It is a matter of great importance. I must speak with your Arch-Mage, at once.”

The woman, Faralda, shifted her weight. Genos noticed that she stood upon some kind of stone seal on the ground; large and circular, he did not recognise its engraved symbol.

“We do not allow just anyone inside the College,” said the elf. “Those who seek to enter must have some level of skill with magic.”

Impatient, Genos raised his right fist. Palm-up, he unfurled his fingers to conjure a handful of flame. Its glow skittered over Faralda’s pointed face, and she looked to Saitama. The Nord faltered, hooked a hand around the back of his neck. “I, uh …” he muttered. “I’m not….”

Faralda peered down her nose at him. “I see,” she sniffed. “Well, I must ask that you wait here. You, mage, come with me.”

Genos planted his feet, rooted while the elf started along the walkway. The _audacity_ of her, he thought. “You would deny entry to the Dragonborn?” he shot.

Faralda stopped short with a crunch of snow, and turned with wide eyes. She stared at Saitama, surveyed him head-to-toe where he stood with one palm pressed to his face. “Dragonborn…?” she said. “You … do you really have the Voice? I would be most impressed to see that.”

Through splayed fingers, Saitama glowered at Genos. He would have been happy to wait outside, let the blond learn what he needed on his own. Not wanting to let the youth down, or make him out to be a liar, Saitama let out a sigh and faced the wall of the arch. He filled his lungs, intent on having less magical words with his apprentice later.

“ _Yol!_ ”

Fire burst in the air, fanned from his mouth like the breath of a dragon. The rush glanced off the wall, scorched the stonework, and Faralda jerked aside in shock. The flames curled and faded, burned out to embers, and Saitama straightened up, sheepish. Genos had likewise jumped back from the blaze – but where the elf gaped afterward, he looked _proud_.

Faralda swallowed with obvious difficulty. “It’s true,” she breathed. “Right this way, please.”

Saitama grabbed her wrist before she could move. “Could you keep this quiet?” he said, awkward. “I mean, I don’t want attention. We’re here for him.”

He tipped his head toward Genos, who clamped his mouth shut.

The elf pursed her lips. “Of course. I will take you to the Arch-Mage at once.”

She led them along the twisting, broken pathway – in places so cracked that even Saitama feared for his life – toward the huge, castle-like College. Wrought iron gates opened onto a small courtyard, where a statue of a wizard stood before the main hall. The stone man’s arms were raised, spread around a pillar of blue light that stretched to the sky. Trees and bushes dotted the yard, walled-in and frostbitten.

Faralda steered the travellers into the main building, the Hall of the Elements, then turned immediately left, through a wooden doorway and up several slights of stairs. She told them to wait, then entered the chamber ahead alone.

Tempted to perch on one of the benches, Saitama tapped the toes of his new boots to the stone. “Gotta say,” he muttered, just loud enough for Genos to hear, “I get the feeling we just jumped through a lot of hoops. Guess being Dragonborn is good for something – getting you answers.”

The blond shook his head. “Your skills are worth far more than that, master,” he said.

Saitama shrugged.

Faralda returned. She gave a small bow, and swept an arm toward the main chamber. “The Arch-Mage will see you now.”

The travellers shared a glance. “After you,” said Saitama.

A small, twisted tree stood at the centre of the room. Its roots encompassed a patch of herbs and flowers, potion ingredients. Balls of light hovered about its branches, filled the high-ceilinged chamber with a soft white glow. Glass rattled in the lofty windows, the bubbling and pungent smells of an alchemy table and the faint hum of an enchanter’s workbench. Genos fought to suppress a wave of excitement; books and potions lined the walls, magical components and soul gems. It was a mage’s toy store, fully stocked, and his fingers itched to experiment. Saitama hid a smile at the look on his face: for once, the blond actually resembled a teenager.

“Honoured to meet you, Dragonborn,” said a male voice. “I am Savos Aren, Arch-Mage. Welcome.”

Another elf sat a short distance away, grey-skinned and bearded, dressed in heavy, hooded robes. He sat with his back to the wall, beside a table of fine crockery, a mounted bear head above his chair.

Saitama winced, and hoped that this was the only person Faralda would tell of his presence. He looked to Genos, and pointed to the farthest bookcase he could see. “I’ll be over there.”

Savos frowned at the Nord’s retreat across the pelt rugs, watched him grab a book at random and hide himself behind it. Savos offered his hand to Genos all the same – but when the Breton took it, he froze. His grasp tightened, squeezed with alarm, and he turned Genos’s flesh hand over to get a good look at his ring.

While Genos tried to pull away, to hide it, Savos’s face turned an ill shade of pewter. “You must speak with Sergius Turrianus at once,” said the Arch-Mage, and he lessened his grip. Genos jerked back, cupped his crushed hand in the metal one, shaken. The gleam of Dwemer metal drew an intrigued expression from the elf. “He is our master Enchanter. Perhaps he can help you.”

Genos composed himself. “Only two can help me,” he said, “One, Hircine himself, and I will die before I beg of a Daedric Lord. The other, the sorcerer who cursed me. I came here in search of information, on where I might find him. I am told that mages in Skyrim keep eyes on one another.”

Savos gave a slow nod of the head. “This sorcerer,” he said, cautious, “is he a Nord? Middle-aged, with a scar on his face, wearing an amulet of Akatosh?”

Genos tensed. Across the room, Saitama glanced up from where he stood pretending to read. “You do know him,” said the blond.

“I recognised his work, of course,” said Savos, and he gestured toward the ring bound to Genos’s finger. He shifted in his seat, crossed his arms. “Eirik Gulbrand. He was one of our most brilliant students, decades ago. Gifted in the art of Enchanting, ever since he was a boy.

“We have one rule at the College,” Savos went on. “All magic is permitted here, independent research encouraged – but causing intentional harm to anyone is forbidden. Eirik was fascinated with the Daedra, Hircine in particular. He had … _trouble_ , deciding where the line lay between ‘moral’ and ‘immoral’ in the execution of his experiments. In result, another student was killed. I was forced to expel him.”

Genos clenched his fists. He glowered down at the Arch-Mage, nostrils flared. “He came to High Rock, four years ago,” he said, “and destroyed my entire village.”

Savos’s crimson eyes narrowed, and he rose to his feet. He strolled across to the herb garden, studied the pale tree in deep thought. “One of his wilder desires was to enter the Hunting Grounds, the plane of Oblivion where Hircine resides,” he said. “Eirik theorised that one could sacrifice a large number of souls to gain entry. He had morals enough not to test this at the College, but … I suppose his expulsion made him desperate.”

Genos approached the elf, stood behind him. Impatience throbbed in his chest, heated with irritation. “I do not care about his motives,” he shot. “He has returned to Skyrim. I need to know where he is now.”

Savos faced him. The elf’s brows came together, calculating and suspicious. “And what will you do, should I know where he is?” he said. “Will you kill him?”

Genos opened his mouth to retort, but paused. He glanced to Saitama, across the chamber; he caught a glimpse of the Nord’s dark eyes over the top of his book, before they darted down. Genos lowered his gaze to the floor, conflicted, then shook away the doubt and looked to the Arch-Mage.

“I will avenge my family,” he said.

Savos sighed, and sank into a crouch at the edge of the herb patch. “One so young should not be driven by rage,” he said. As he spoke, he gently cupped a head of nightshade flower.

Genos stepped closer. “Do you know, or not?”

The elf said nothing for a while, tended to his flowers. When he straightened up again, his features were drawn. “Eirik often had dealings with the Silver-Bloods,” he said. “He sold them enchanted weapons, and made a tidy profit doing so. I doubt he would return to Skyrim and not reach out to them.”

The blond cocked his head. “Silver-Bloods?”

The _snap_ of a book drew Genos’s attention backward. He turned in time to watch Saitama slot his tome onto its shelf, the Nord’s posture somehow wilted.

“Not nice folks,” he said, reluctant. “They’re a family, in Markarth.”

Genos blinked. “Master’s hometown?”

The Nord nodded, stiff.

While the mages picked up their conversation, Saitama repressed a shudder. No doubt Genos would want him to stay close, to protect others from the wolf – but he had no desire whatsoever to return to his birthplace. Not only was Markarth on the opposite end of the country, thus would take _weeks_ to reach on foot, but just the thought of visiting made his skin crawl. The city was everything he hated about civilisation, bland stone and cruel rules and corruption. The Silver-Bloods owned it all, from the inn to the prison mines, and they ruled with a miserly fist.

But … they were Genos’s only clue.

He willed the tremor in his hands away. He would rather toss himself off a cliff than head ‘home’, but Genos would not last five minutes there without him.

Saitama crossed the room and clapped a hand to the young mage’s shoulder. He felt Genos flinch, surprised by the contact. “All right,” he said. “Come on. Markarth’s twice as far as from here to Whiterun. We should get going.”

He saw something glisten in the blond’s eyes, _hope_ , there and gone again before he could acknowledge it. “Yes, master.”

They said their farewells. Savos wished the travellers a safe journey, with an extra warning to Genos about revenge and innocence, and saw them off from his chambers. Saitama took the stairs down at a quick pace, able to hear the murmurs of a lecture from the main hall below.

“There’s no transport in Winterhold,” he said. “We’ll head to Windhelm, take a carriage from there. Should save time.”

At first, Genos’s rapid footfalls were his only response in the dim stairwell. “Master,” he said, “may I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

As they rounded the corner to the final few steps, he heard Genos draw a deep breath. “After you defeated the dragon,” he said, “when you told me of your abilities … you said that you had grown tired of helping selfish people.”

“You’re paraphrasing,” said Saitama, and he paused at the foot of the stairs to let the blond catch up. “But, yeah, I remember. What about it?”

He stepped through into the entrance hall, and fell still. Genos also hung back, troubled, hovered by the large, impressive door that led out into the courtyard.

“Well,” said the mage, “you have fulfilled your promise. You brought me to the College. Yet you seem eager to continue on, to assist me. Furthermore, you only agreed to help once I offered you money – but earlier, you claimed that gold is not important to you. I do not understand.”

Saitama peeked through the elaborate gate that led into the lecture hall, where he saw a handful of students gathered around an old man. “What’s your point?”

“My goal is selfish,” said Genos, and he shook his head. “You do not benefit from helping me in any way, at least that I can see. I cannot comprehend why you still wish to journey with me, since I have nothing to offer that you would find valuable.”

The Nord rubbed a hand over his face as he weighed the question. “Sometimes,” he said, “helping people is just the right thing to do.”

Genos frowned at him for a long while, then stepped around his mentor to shove through the exit. A bitter draught swept his hair back, and Saitama squinted against the chill as he followed into the courtyard.

“Master says many contradictory things,” said Genos.

Saitama fell into step with him, at a slight jog to match the blond’s longer strides. Genos was moving with purpose, vigour renewed by the fresh lead on his target. “Guess I’m still figuring myself out,” said the Nord. He linked both hands behind his head, embraced the frosty breeze. Stone buildings made him uncomfortable.

The two retraced their steps along the crumbled walkway, suspended over snapped glaciers and treacherous rocks. Genos slipped ahead to cross the narrowest section single-file, and Saitama grew fixated on the sewn fur between the youth’s shoulders.

“You’re different to people I’ve helped before,” he said in afterthought. Genos glanced back, inquisitive. Saitama flexed his linked fingers. “You wanted my help before you knew who I was. _My_ help, not the Dragonborn’s. I’m not interested in being anyone’s errand boy, just because I’ve got dragons in my blood. That’s not the kind of hero I want to be.”

Once across the thin stretch, Genos slowed to walk side-by-side again. “So, you _do_ wish to be some sort of hero?”

His tone was calm, neither accusatory nor coy, and Saitama fell silent. They passed over the circular seal in the archway, down the sloped path and onto the solid ground of the mainland. Villagers walked the daylight, outnumbered by guards, shooed chickens with armfuls of firewood. The travellers made a beeline for the far end of town, along the slushy trail that had brought them into Winterhold. They left the settlement without a backward glance, retraced their steps across the hilly terrain toward Alftand.

Saitama searched his soul for an answer to his pupil’s question. It took him until the Sightless Pit to come up with a reply, and he squeezed the straps of his rucksack in discomfort. “It’d be nice to not get yelled at whenever I lend folks a hand,” he said. “To be, I dunno … appreciated.”

Genos faced him while they walked, moved sideward like a crab over the uneven ground. “I appreciate you, master,” he said. Sincerity flowed from him in waves, firm and immovable, and Saitama cracked a tiny smile.

“Yeah, well, you’re a strange one.”

Somewhere close, a roar rolled through the mountains.

The Nord stopped in his tracks, scanned the skies on instinct. Sure enough, like déjà vu, he saw a familiar shape on the jagged horizon, circling over the tallest peak to the south. His first impulse was to groan, to avert his eyes and ignore the dragon – but he narrowed them instead when an idea struck. They would have to head that direction anyway, if they planned to take a carriage from Windhelm….

“Master?”

He looked to the mage, thinking fast. “How far can you shoot?”

Mystification creased Genos’s features. “My arrows?” he said. “Quite far. Why?”

Saitama pointed to the dragon. “Get its attention,” he said. “We’re taking a shortcut.”

Though baffled, Genos conjured his bow. The dragon soared almost lazily through the clouds, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, oblivious to the travellers. Genos took aim, held his breath to focus.

A soft wind ghosted over him, ruffled his hair and furs, stung his eyes. The ethereal arrow strained against its bowstring, the muscles of his arm drawn tight, and he muttered a prayer to Kynareth that his aim held true. He let go and the shot snapped, lanced through the air in a great arc and disappeared.

Seconds later, the dragon jerked mid-flight. He saw its neck twist, searching. Genos took a second shot, then a third that missed its mark, before the dragon finally spotted him and Saitama, specks in the snow.

The enormous lizard changed course with an angry bellow. Genos readied a fourth arrow – but Saitama set a hand upon his forearm, forced his bow down. The Nord gave him a quick smile, all sharp angles and confidence. Saitama then stepped in front of Genos, fearless, planted his feet between him and the approaching dragon.

For an instant, as the winged reptile swooped down and he filled his lungs, Saitama closed his eyes. He never thought he would call these Words again.

“ _Gol Hah Dov!_ ”

Like the fire from that morning, a ring of golden light burst from his Voice. It caught the dragon head-on, mid-dive, and the creature veered up, its body trailing streaks of brilliant azure flame. Buffeted by the wind of its wings, Saitama and Genos both ducked under its belly. It circled once, swung back around with a groan of a roar; the flames died out and the dragon landed hard before him, the impact like an earthquake. Genos stumbled in alarm, but Saitama did not so much as flinch.

The beast was massive, an off shade of bronze-orange, with a thick, straight tail and pale eyes that seemed to lack pupils. Spikes like fins fanned from its sides, breaths heavy and rattling. With eerie grace, thin snout inches from Saitama’s blank face, it bowed its head.

“ _Dovahkiin_ ,” it said.

Genos gawped, stepped out from behind him. This close up, the monstrosity was somehow beautiful. Its voice shook snow from nearby trees, deep and wise, thrummed with ancient power.

“You bested me in _grah do fen_ ,” it said, “a battle of will. None have done this before, _dov_ or _mun_ … dragon or man.”

Saitama said nothing. He craned up at the creature, nonchalant in contrast to Genos’s wonder, as if it were an equal.

The dragon bowed lower. “My name is Kahodnir,” it rumbled. “Should you ever be in need of my _suleyk_ , my power, speak it, and I shall come to you.”

Saitama reached out, placed a palm to the hot scales between its nostrils. “All right,” he said. He glanced at Genos, then back to the dragon, and shrugged. “For now, mind giving us a ride?”

In a creak of snow, the dragon flattened its neck to the ground. Without another word, Saitama stepped around its spiked cheek and gripped the horns at the back of its skull. He hauled himself up, onto its nape, mounted Kahodnir like a horse with one leg on either side of its throat.

“By the gods,” said Genos.

Saitama gave a start, as if he had already forgotten the blond’s presence. He leaned to pat the stretch of armoured skin behind himself. “Hop on.”

Genos stood rooted. “Master,” he said, leery. “We cannot ride a dragon into Markarth.”

“No, but we can get it pretty darn close.”

The mage inched closer to Kahodnir, reverently touched its flank. The knobbly skin felt warmer than he expected, like pebbles left too long in the sun. The dragon huffed a breath, and he drew away.

“Where did you even learn to do this … to tame a dragon?”

“Solstheim,” said Saitama, and he drummed his fingers on the dragon’s horns. “There was some crazy cult leader a while ago. Hermaeus Mora helped me take care of him. No big deal.”

Genos, once again, shook his head in awe, and Saitama helped him climb aboard. Passengers secure, Kahodnir spread its tattered wings; the dragon sprang up in a whirl of snow, and – with a roar – took to the skies over Winterhold.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pKv_wua6kFE)
> 
> **Context notes** :  
> * Birna tries to sell Saitama and Genos a **Coral Dragon Claw** , one of a series of Claw items that open Nordic ruins.  
> * [Genos’s new clothes](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Fur_Armor_\(Skyrim\)?file=Bandit_Armor_Male_2.jpg#Attributes_by_piece)  
> * _Yol_ means Fire in the dragon tongue, and is the first word of the “Fire Breath” Shout.  
>  * _Gol Hah Dov_ is the “Bend Will” Shout, allowing one to control and ride dragons. Its individual words mean Earth, Mind, Dragon.  
>  * **Dragon names** are made up of three Words of Power, like Shouts. Kah-od-nir means pride-snow-hunt.  
>  * **Hermaeus Mora** (AKA Hoermius, Hormaius, Herma Mora, and The Woodland Man) is the Daedric Prince of knowledge and memory. Saitama refers to the events of the _Dragonborn_ DLC, where the player travels to Solstheim (an island between Skyrim and Morrowind, home of the Dark Elves) to fight the first Dragonborn, Miraak.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	6. Honour Thy Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Content warnings_ : choking (intimidation tactic)

*

 

Skyrim looked very different from above.

Saitama steered Kahodnir through the clouds, tugged lightly at the dragon’s horns to steer its course over the mountains. The cold air made him breathless, and for once he was glad of his baldness; with his focus on the flight, he could only imagine the mess of Genos’s hair. The mage’s arms were wrapped tight around his middle – either from fear of heights or worry that their steed’s wings would throw him off, should he slide too far back along its neck.

They passed over the jagged range between territories, from Winterhold and into The Pale, then on to Whiterun hold. Saitama chose the Throat of the World – the tallest peak in Tamriel – as his waypoint. When they reached it, they would head west – cross the border into the Reach toward Markarth.

As the dragon’s path curved around the Throat of the World, he felt Genos squeeze to catch his attention. Saitama twisted to look at him, squinted over the roar of wind in his ears.

“There,” Genos called. “What is that place?”

Saitama peered down, over the rows of spines and beating wings. The mage pointed to the highest mountain; a short hike down from its white crest, a stone temple with courtyard sat nestled in the snow.

“That’s High Hrothgar,” he yelled back, “where the Greybeards live.”

“The ones who taught master of the Voice?” said Genos. Saitama faced forward, fought the dragon’s instinct to circle off-course. “What was it like?”

Saitama’s lips pinched. “It was okay.”

Kahodnir carried them over one final mountain range, then into the deep canyon that carved out the River Karth. Saitama recognised the area, saw Markarth sprawled ahead. He tightened his thighs around the scaly neck.

“Take us down.”

Kahodnir snapped its jaws. “At once, _thuri_.”

The dragon landed on the mossy banks with more finesse than it had in Winterhold. It flattened itself to the ground, kept still with a throaty rumble. Genos pried his arms apart and slid down, never more grateful for solid ground. Saitama dismounted casually, as if riding a giant lizard was something one did every day, and patted the reptile’s throat.

“My service is complete,” said Kahodnir. It tilted its horned head, to meet Saitama eye-to-eye. “Until next we meet, _Dovahkiin. Wundun pruzah_ … travel well.”

Genos scrambled out from its wingspan, covered his head at the downdraft as Kahodnir again took to the air. Saitama watched the great beast fly away, then adjusted his backpack with a cough.

“Shall we?”

They emerged from the ravine beside a thunderous waterfall, the spray cool and refreshing. Saitama led them northwest, past an old silver mine toward the city. Genos calmed down enough to recognise the Dwarven design of the place; walled-in, rigid architecture, stone watchtowers and golden roofs. Through clusters of juniper bushes, over ground more grit than pebbles and grass, they passed a horse carriage and its glum-faced driver. The huge metal doors of the city entrance loomed ahead, up a winding path of stone steps.

As they neared the entrance, framed by helmed guards, unease bubbled in Saitama’s gut. Everything in him begged to turn back, to Shout Kahodnir and leave this place far behind. Memories flickered through his mind, rain and alleys and blood on the cobbles. No happy childhood had been spent here, no memories of loving parents or cheerful friends.

This was where it had all started, the mockery and disapproval and insults. He remembered one girl, though her name and face slipped his mind. She had stolen the boiled creme treat he bought with his own money, called him dumb and ugly for being too slow to take it back. The girl’s father knew the Silver-Bloods, so there had been nothing he could do. In a city where adults did not listen to children, there had been no-one to complain to.

Saitama felt himself tensing the closer they got to the outer wall, felt his body physically recoil. He could smell it from here, cramped people and filth and the stench of smelters and forges. Silver was the city’s main export, its lifeblood, made from the ore its prisoners were forced to mine in servitude.

Genos’s arm bumped against his as they climbed the steps. From the mage’s forward stare, Saitama knew the contact had been an accident. It eased his nerves all the same.

“Hold there!” said one of the guards, the one on the left of the door. Saitama ignored him, kept walking. He only stopped when the guard flung out an arm, barring their path. “There’s a toll to enter the city–”

“Not a chance,” Saitama shot, and he brushed past the man with ease. Both guards grumbled, but did not protest, either not brave or not paid enough to challenge Saitama’s bare, muscled arms. Genos avoided eye-contact while his mentor pushed through the door, and slipped inside with breath held.

A meat cart stood in the marketplace near the entrance, its cart tilted, the buildings cluttered and grimy. Raised walkways linked the upper levels, only clean where spray from the unimpressive waterfalls could reach. Genos coughed at the stench, claustrophobic, fought the urge to pinch his nose. No wonder Saitama chose to leave home, he thought.

“Where should we begin?” he choked out.

Saitama also wrinkled his nose. “Thonar Silver-Blood,” he said, and strode past the marketplace. “He does most of the family’s business. He should know something about your sorcerer.”

Genos hurried to keep pace, swerved around passing guards and irritable citizens. “And, if not?”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it,” said Saitama. “Thonar should be in the Treasury House, up there.”

He led the way, straight ahead, past smoky sconces and over a stream. The water fed underground; Markarth was built atop Dwemer ruins, whose machines used steam for power. Genos’s arm, taken from a Dwarven Sphere automaton, once worked the same way, now enchanted to run on his Magicka instead.

Saitama recognised a handful of citizens en-route to the Treasury House, but kept to himself. It came as no surprise that no-one recognised him in return; he had left long before his stay with the Greybeards, during which he lost his hair. He looked completely different. Should he have the misfortune to run into them, he doubted even his parents would know him.

Another thing he had done since leaving home was join – and quit – the Thieves Guild. As such, he noticed something carved into the wall by the door of the Silver-Blood building: a Shadowmark, a symbol left by a thief. This particular mark, a lined square within a circle, meant loot. Something valuable lurked inside, waiting to be filched.

He was still sore over the creme treat incident. Perhaps if he felt vengeful enough, he would poke around to see what the Guild thought worth stealing.

Saitama did not bother to knock, but shoved the entrance wide and strode in. Genos followed, cold despite his furs. He blamed the chill on the waterfall that cleaved the wall beside the door, on the moss and algae that clung to the rocks. Just as an illusion of fire could make one feel warmer, absence of any cheer amid this stone labyrinth made him shiver.

The Treasury House lived up to its name. An elegant hallway led into a large, rich, well-lit chamber, with many mounted animal heads and food laid out lavishly. Behind a table of jugs and candles, a Nord woman sat reading a book. She was pale and blond, dressed in fancy clothes and a lofty expression. She glanced up at the noise of the door, and grimaced at the sight of her visitors.

“Oh, do go away,” she said. “I’m tired of peasants wandering in here. The tavern is back toward the city gate, by the guard tower.”

Saitama forced a smile. “We’re here to see your husband,” he said. Genos took a moment to look around, spotted a small enclosed room at the centre of the chamber. He saw a safe through its sturdy gates, along with a pile of silver ingots. This place was worth a fortune, he thought.

The woman closed her book, one fine eyebrow raised. “Really, now,” she said. “Get out, or I’ll call the guards.”

“Go on, then,” said Saitama.

The two Nords locked eyes, glared at each other in silent contest. Genos knew it was only a matter of time; if his teacher’s will could best a dragon, this fool of a woman stood no chance. She faltered when Saitama crossed his arms, and twisted in her chair to yell toward the back room.

“Thonar!” she called. “Visitors!”

A long, uncomfortable minute passed. Genos shivered again, drew his furs tighter. It crossed his mind to approach the crackling fireplace, but he stilled when the unpleasant woman’s husband emerged.

Thonar Silver-Blood was a balding, sour-faced man in brown clothes; he scowled at the intruders to his home, sniffed in distaste. He moved to stand a full foot away from his wife’s side, and thumbed the dagger that hung strapped to his hip.

“Yes, what do you want?” he said, impatiently. “I’m a busy man.”

Saitama prompted Genos with an elbow to the side. The blond stepped forward, squared his shoulders to match Saitama’s threatening stance. Genos had the advantage of height, but his mentor had bulk. Even so, an angry mage made for an imposing sight.

“I want Eirik Gulbrand,” he said.

Something flashed across Thonar’s face, and he tensed. He sidestepped toward his wife’s chair, placed a hand on her shoulder. “Betrid,” he said, without looking at her. “Make yourself scarce a moment, won’t you, dear?”

The woman cast him a suspicious look. She then gave a huff, set aside her book, and stood. With her nose in the air, she swept out from behind the desk and brushed roughly between Saitama and Genos. The heavy door slammed in her wake, but neither traveller took their eyes off Thonar.

“Who sent you?” he said, the instant his wife stormed out.

Genos bristled. “ _I_ sent us,” he said. He jabbed a finger at Thonar, the other fist clenched tight. “I know he sells you enchanted weapons. I have business with him. You will tell me where he is.”

To his dismay, Thonar smirked.

“Will I, now?” he said, and cocked his weight. “And what makes you think you can intimidate me, boy? You _do_ know who I am? I am Thonar _Silver-Blood_. I own this city. If you think you can just walk in here and bully me, you are sorely mistaken.”

With Saitama silent, Genos took a chance. “You will tell me,” he said, in as dark a voice as he could manage, “or I will ensure that you never see your wife again.”

Thonar gave a bark of laughter. “Oh, would you please?” he said, and laughed again. The sound rang harsh in the cavernous room, scathing. “She only married me for my money, you know. Everyone knows that. You would be doing me a favour.”

The blond stiffened. “Then I will burn this building down,” he warned.

“This building is made of _stone_ , you fool,” said Thonar, ever smug. His face then cleared, and he smacked a fist into the opposite palm in fake revelation. “Oh, the furniture is wooden! Perhaps you’d like to burn that? I was thinking about purchasing a new suite, anyway.”

Beside where Genos stood and fumed, Saitama let out a sigh. His Thieves Guild training would make an appearance after all, it seemed.

In the space of a blink, he had crossed the space between Genos and Thonar. He grabbed his fellow Nord by the throat, and slammed him back into the gates of the strong room. The metal rang like a gong at the impact, Thonar’s splutters panicked and loud while he clawed at Saitama’s forearm. He kicked uselessly, Saitama immune to the thud of boots against his shins and stomach.

“You need to work on your intimidation tactics, kid,” he said.

Genos stared. He had not even seen him _move_. He watched Thonar’s face turn blotchy purple, then blue, before snapping from his shock. The blond swept closer, stood himself at Saitama’s flank.

“Eirik Gulbrand,” he said. “A sorcerer, Nord. Where is he?”

Thonar choked, dragged in a ragged breath. Saitama eased the weight of his hand just enough to let the man breathe. For the sake of his own conscience, never mind Thonar’s health, he hoped the Silver-Blood talked soon.

“I’ll have you both thrown into the mines for this–!”

Hope was a dangerous thing.

Genos watched his teacher squeeze, sensed his reluctance when Thonar gagged and kicked again. The blond’s chest tightened. Saitama was an honourable soul, set firmly against the harming of the innocent – and while Thonar seemed far from an innocent man, he had done them no personal wrong. Genos shook his head. This was his responsibility, not Saitama’s. He reached out, opened his mouth to ask that his mentor stand down.

A wave of dizziness crashed into him, and he slapped a hand to the table to keep upright. Saitama jerked his head at the noise, deaf to Thonar’s wheezes.

Genos gasped, squeezed his eyes shut. His own breaths were coming faster, thinner, heart hammering against his ribs. He felt disoriented, woozy – nausea, a thousand times worse than that of the dragon flight.

Panic, ingrained from the number of times this feeling had gripped him.

 _Oh gods, not now_.

He straightened up as best he could through the shivers. “M-master,” he said. He dared not let go of the table, lest he fall. “We should go. I … I do not feel well.”

Saitama’s features darkened in sudden comprehension. He released Thonar, who collapsed in a fit of coughing, and seized Genos by the wrist – but he did not race outside with him, out of Markarth and to safety. Instead, he yanked Genos forward. He ripped open the gates of the small treasury room, and pushed the youth inside. Before Genos could find his balance, Saitama slammed the gates shut – locked him in, like some caged beast for show.

While Genos clutched at the bars in a rising state of panic, Saitama dragged Thonar upright and shoved his face to the gate.

“What are–?!”

“You see this kid?” Saitama cut across his fellow Nord. He pressed one arm across Thonar’s back, pinned him in place. “This young, not-threatening guy? Well, he’s about to get a lot more threatening. See, he’s a _werewolf_ – only, he can’t control it.”

Thonar scoffed, struggled against the gate. Saitama pushed him flat to it, avoided the blond’s terrified stare. If this gamble paid off, he would only lose a few nights of sleep over the fear on that handsome face.

“Either you tell us where to find Eric Whatever-His-Name-Is,” he said, “or I lock you in there with him.”

Genos blanched.

“You’re bluffing,” Thonar bit out. “Werewolves have silver eyes, everyone knows that!”

“Oh yeah?” said Saitama. “You’d bet your life on that?”

Genos rattled the bars with all the strength he could muster. “Master, please!” he begged. Ice crept through his veins, burned the flesh from the inside out. “ _Please_ , please stop this! I–”

The weakness slammed into him again, and he doubled over. He slipped down the bars, one hand screeching and the other slick with sweat, onto all fours. Pain, static. He could not think, could barely breathe, unable to understand Saitama’s distant voice.

The last thing he felt was betrayal, before the cursed ring took him.

Saitama looked away – but stopped Thonar’s attempt to recoil, forced him to watch the beast take shape around his student. If the werewolf could rip the limbs off a Dwarven Centurion, a flimsy gate would not last two seconds. Saitama knew this. With one hand, while the older Nord writhed in fear, he reached back and snagged a chunk of cooked beef from its platter on the table. He tossed the meat through the bars and the wolf pounced on it, tore into it with savage bites.

“Looks hungry,” he said, voice tight around the knot of guilt in his gullet.

“R-Ragnvald!” Thonar cried, pride gone, twisting under his hands. “Eirik – Ragnvald!”

Saitama let out a breath. Ragnvald, an ancient Nordic ruin a short ways north of here.

The werewolf raised its head, snack devoured, ears pinned flat and teeth bared.

It snarled over Thonar’s undignified shriek, and pounced in the same instant that Saitama shoved Thonar hard away. The Silver-Blood toppled backward over the table, out of sight. The wolf crashed through the metal gates and ploughed into Saitama, tackled him flat in a whirl of black fur.

Dully, he felt its jaw fasten around his forearm. There was no pain: sharp as they were, its fangs failed to pierce his skin. Saitama used its grip of him to throw the brute across the room, toward the front door, through furniture in a great din of crockery and claws. The wolf scrabbled upright, fighting for traction on the stonework, growled low and loud. It made to attack again – but Saitama dashed forward, before it could react, swerved around its swing. He seized one of its ears in passing, wrenched the beast a full one-eighty degrees to face the door. The wolf snapped in pained fury and barrelled after him – Thonar forgotten – through the exit and out into the street.

Saitama moved at a sprint, pushed passersby out of harm’s way. Citizens screamed cries of ‘werewolf!’ and ‘monster!’, the bravest of the guards drawing weapons. Saitama made as much noise as he could to keep its attention on him, threw rocks from the ground whenever it started to stray. Arrows flew overhead, the guards too shaken by the sudden attack to aim straight.

Like an enraged bear, the wolf pursued Saitama into the marketplace. It lost interest in favour of the meat stall, whose owner bolted with a spluttered gasp. Saitama knocked a guard’s arrow from the air, annoyed. The city exit was _right there_ – but with a full cart of venison and horse meat to gnaw at, the wolf had no interest in leaving. Saitama let out a Shout, _Dismay_ , drove the attacking guards to flee in a panicked frenzy. With the risk of collateral damage lessened, he then sprinted to the grand bronzed doors. He fumbled to throw them wide, the path to the Reach clear, and turned back. He paused, fixated on where the wolf hunched with its head in a barrel of chicken breasts.

Deaf to the screams around him, Saitama noticed that the werewolf seemed drawn to the bloodier cuts of game. He remembered the trek through the Falmer cave, remembered the lack of bite marks on the long-dead bandits there. It had not touched the old corpses, despite the lack of decay.

It liked _fresh_ meat.

On a whim, he brought a thumb to his mouth and bit down – hard. He felt the skin break, a faint sting, warmth beading at his teeth.

At the scent of his blood, the werewolf wheeled around with ears pricked. Its golden eyes locked on the red streak at Saitama’s mouth, at the rivulet that trickled down his wrist. It pushed away from the stall with a throaty rumble, nose aquiver, then launched itself at him.

Saitama ran, baited the werewolf out of Markarth. Instead of retreating the way they had arrived, he headed north – into the tall, misty mountains that framed the city. His Shout had not reached beyond the walls; the guards outside exclaimed and drew their bows, arrows raining as he started to climb. He heard the wolf scrabbling on the rocks behind him, its guttural breaths and grunts of frustration. More than once, he heard it snap at his ankles. Their ascent was steep and frantic, perilous, into the clouds and out of the archers’ range.

The rocks levelled off, smoothed into a small mesa crowded with trees. Saitama scaled the crest, dived when the wolf swung for his legs. He lured it down a rocky slope, between lush trees and bramble patches. Ahead, amid scattered pines, he spotted two tall pillars with distinctive Nordic carvings. The pillars’ crowns had been shaped like the head of eagles or dragons – stone sentries, guarding the path to Ragnvald.

A hawk screeched overhead, and the werewolf skidded to a halt in the patchy grass.

Saitama faltered, almost winded from the climb, saw its glare snap skyward. It fell motionless, muscles coiled and locked. Distracted. The Nord simply stood for a moment, confused while it watched the bird’s silhouette drift through the blue. It was strange to see the beast so still, so calm, its thick fur fluid in the mountain breeze, like long grass. Saitama craned his neck to likewise look at the bird, wondering why the wolf seemed so fascinated.

Hazy mountains framed the horizon, jagged peaks in every direction. The sunlight burned bright, midday, the air warm and tranquil. He heard insects, fauna rustling, a breeze through leaves and branches. A dead tree lay toppled nearby, draped in ivy and wild mushrooms. For somewhere so remote, he thought, this would make a good camping spot.

A strange noise, and he glanced down to find Genos on the ground.

The last of the black smoke curled into vapour as Saitama approached him. He stooped over the mage, cautious, hovered one hand above his trembling shoulder. When Genos flinched away from him, he felt his insides sink. With slow, measured movements – head bowed – Genos dug a hand into the earth and pushed himself upright. He brushed dirt from his clothes, nostrils flared, and cracked his eyes to glare at Saitama.

The Nord bit his lip. Genos was _furious_.

“Thonar’s fine,” Saitama rushed out, palms spread. “I wasn’t actually gonna–”

“Did he talk?” Genos spoke over him. His voice rang sharp on the mountaintop, cool, expression tight.

Saitama swallowed hard. He was used to strangers looking at him as if he were some kind of bug – but not _Genos_. There was no warmth in those amber eyes, none of the usual faith or admiration, and it dawned on Saitama that he had done something awful.

He had not thought about consequences.

“Y-yeah, he did,” he said. Awkward, he pointed toward the Nordic pillars. “Your guy’s in Ragnvald, just down th–”

Genos stalked off, in the direction Saitama had indicated.

With heavy feet, and needles in his throat, Saitama trailed behind. He wiped the blood from his hand as they descended the slope, the self-inflicted bite already healed. Not even the sounds of the wilderness soothed his nerves. Genos had never looked so big, those broad shoulders bunched and his mismatched fists balled.

Saitama cursed under his breath, cursed the gods and the Silver-Bloods and himself. The footpath ended at a small cliff, whose sheer drop landed them before the tiered steps of Ragnvald. Another day, and he would have been curious to enter an unexplored Nordic ruin. With his student in the lead, however, all but ablaze with wounded wrath and disappointment, Saitama wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

He wanted to apologise, as they passed beneath pointed stone archways on the climb, to promise that he would never let the wolf harm anyone. The threat with Thonar had been an empty one. He wanted so much to speak, to explain – but was terrified he might say the wrong thing, and make Genos even angrier.

Mindful of the danger, he worked up his nerve. “Hey, kid….”

Without pause to glance back at him, Genos summoned an atronach. The fiery Daedra materialised in the air between the two men, blocked Saitama’s path while Genos continued up the steps. The elemental tipped her chin to fix the Nord with a sour look – an impressive feat, given her lack of eyes – then twirled to drift in her master’s wake.

“Not now,” Genos shot, over his shoulder.

Saitama dodged around the atronach, and grabbed Genos’s metal wrist. Yanked to a halt, the mage glowered at his mentor. “No, listen,” said Saitama. Urgency shaped his voice, and he let go before he crushed the limb into scrap. “About Thonar … it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I wasn’t really gonna lock him in with you. I knew he’d talk–”

“My curse is not some tool that you can use to intimidate people,” said Genos. He chopped a hand through the air, hot colour in his ears. “The wolf cannot be controlled. Even by you, with all your strength. You teach me about mercy and sparing the innocent, about _what is right_ , and then you … you risked that man’s life. It could have killed him.”

Saitama frowned. “And you’re _not_ okay with that,” he said, “when we’ve come all the way out here so you can kill this sorcerer guy?”

“This is different,” said Genos. “Eirik took everything from me. This is revenge. What you did was unnecessary, risky, and foolish. I will not kill an innocent man, or allow my condition to cause such a thing.”

“Thonar Silver-Blood is _far_ from innocent,” said Saitama.

Genos let out an irritated sound, somewhere between a shout and a growl. Saitama flinched; for someone so articulate, the blond must have been _irate_ to struggle for words. Beside them, near the top of the steps, the atronach twirled in place to entertain herself. Her summoner ignored the graceful dance, his brow cleaved by an emotion Saitama could not name.

“You abused my trust,” said Genos.

The Nord dropped his gaze. Pressure swelled in his throat, tongue heavy, palms cold and damp with sweat. “I’m sorry.”

The mage’s eyes narrowed, and his head twitched in the subtlest of shakes. _That_ emotion, Saitama recognised: disbelief. Before he could say anything more, Genos scaled the final step onto the flat grounds outside Ragnvald.

Saitama sighed. Rather than fumble his way through a second apology, he kept his mouth shut.

An ancient, tall, intricately carved black door lurked behind another pillar. Genos, reticent, shoved inside with a great creak of metal. His atronach floated behind, trailing flame on the stone. Meek and ashamed, Saitama followed.

The tense silence continued through the sconce-lit maze of a temple, through fights with undead draugr who stumbled from their coffins to repel the intruders. The tunnels crisscrossed, wove back and forth though crypts and a canal system that only seemed to worsen the mage’s mood. He kept an atronach on standby, summoned new ones when the previous faded back to Oblivion, his conjured bow at the ready. He explored ahead, on his own, did not wait for Saitama to catch up.

Along the way, Saitama watched his anger change shape. The mage grew more alert, his attacks more refined, as if readying himself for the true battle ahead. His rage cooled, became something precise and calculating. The Nord sensed apprehension from him, unease. Perhaps it had only just dawned on the youth that this, this tomb, could well be the end of his quest – that today spelled not only his revenge, but his freedom.

Was he ready?

 In terms of magic, Genos was no stronger than when Saitama had met him. He had learned no new spells, practiced no new skills in their scant days together. Whatever half-baked lessons Saitama had fed him in this time, the Nord doubted they would help defeat a fully fledged – and insane – master of magic.

Saitama worried that Genos had gotten ahead of himself. He should have kept tabs on Eirik here, observed while he trained for the fight. And – given the incident in Markarth – if the blond went down in battle, Saitama did not feel that Genos would appreciate his mentor ending the fight for him.

Whatever the case, ready or not, they were running out of paths to explore.

For the third time, the two returned to the rear chamber of the main temple. A gate, made of retractable metal bars, blocked the only route they had not taken, the barrier raised behind a large coffin in the centre of the floor. Shelves of candles and burial urns lined the space, narrow wooden beams crossed overhead. Torn banners flapped in the breeze, while eerie noises whispered: shifting dust, the groans of the undead, the crackle of Genos’s atronach.

Still quiet, the travellers approached the sarcophagus. Its resident had failed to wake and burst free, its lid pinned shut by two gear-like rings of carved stone. Beside each arch, an odd-shaped keyhole was set into the edge of the coffin. Saitama dug a human skull from his backpack as he neared the pedestal, an item he had taken from one of the more powerful draugr in the crypts. He held it against the left-hand slot, and grinned.

“Ha, look at that,” he said. “It fits. Knew they looked important.”

With a _click_ , he set the skull into its receptacle. Its eye sockets lit up, flared an unsettling shade of blue, but nothing more happened.

Genos plucked at his bowstring. “Should you be doing that?” he said. “It feels like a trap.”

For the sake of peace, Saitama chose not to point out that this was the first he had spoken since entering the temple. “I bet anything these things unlock the gate,” he said. As he spoke, he pulled the second skull from his pack.

“That was not my point,” said Genos. He stepped closer while Saitama raised the second skull to eye-level. “Almost all other coffins we have passed thus far contained draugr. This one seems to have been worshipped, if the candles and central location are any sign. And with this magical seal … something dangerous could await us inside.”

Saitama quirked an eyebrow. “Well,” he said, “we’ve not found your Eric guy yet. Through that gate is the only way we haven’t gone, so he has to be there. You really wanna turn back now?”

He saw Genos’s throat tighten, saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eye. Jaw grim-set, Genos shook his head in a quiver of golden hair.

The Nord forced a smile to try and reassure him. It suddenly struck him how _young_ Genos was, and the words of the College Arch-Mage lanced through his mind. _One so young should not be driven by rage_ , indeed. With a dry mouth, Saitama pressed the second skull into its keyhole.

The dread in his gut did not come from the thought of whatever lay trapped in this coffin.

The gear-rings split in half and fell away, withdrew into the floor with a grinding groan of stone. A screech of metal told him that gate ahead had also retracted – the final path now accessible – but the coffin’s lid sprang open before either man could move.

A draugr rose from the sarcophagus in a cloud of dust, different to all others they had fought in the temple. This one wore a cruel mask, and tattered robes adorned with bones – a Dragon Priest. It let out an unholy shriek, hung in the air like some spectral demon, and raised a withered hand toward the intruders.

Genos reacted first. He dismissed his bow in favour of magic, launched a fireball at the Priest while Saitama backed up. The Priest blocked the blond’s attack with a shimmering Ward, then reached for his atronach. Saitama thought nothing of it at first – until the atronach tossed a handful of flame at her master. Genos dodged the blaze, wide-eyed, embers licking at his furs. Saitama realised; the Priest had turned the Daedra against them.

He did not have the patience for this.

Saitama rushed up to the sarcophagus, seized the Priest by the front of its robes, and punched it square in the face. Its mask shattered under his knuckles, like a pane of glass, and the draugr fell – disintegrated into a pile of ash and cloth scraps on the floor. The turned atronach jerked as if struck, and likewise disappeared in a crackle of light.

The Nord wiped ash from his knuckles, and looked to where Genos stood shaken. “Sometimes,” he said, “I think you’re _too_ smart.”

Genos swallowed hard, and faced the newly opened gate. Rather than summon another atronach, he conjured back his bow and nodded a ‘thank you’.

Saitama expected the final path to twist and turn in another series of tunnels, but it did not. Instead, the opening led to a single long room. Straight ahead, a treasure chest slumped amid a knot of fallen rocks. The Nord’s first instinct was to run to it and rummage for loot – but an odd prickle at the back of his neck stopped him.

He sensed something, a quiet power to the left. While Genos crouched to inspect the chest, Saitama turned to seek the source of the sensation. He saw a line of short pillars on the floor, bowls of flame and crumbled Nordic statues. Beyond, at the end of the room, a curved wall stretched halfway to the roof. Its surface shivered in the firelight, danced with engraved symbols in a language he half-recognised. Reams of words, carved as if by claws. At their crown, the stylised carving of a dragon’s head stood proud.

A Word Wall.

Thoughts of Genos faded to the back of Saitama’s mind. He approached the Wall in a state of wonder, lured by the thrum of energy within the rock. He could hear it, a muffled chanting in his soul. As he neared, one of the ancient words began to burn hot blue. It reached out to him, unfamiliar and strange – then became clear in his mind, washed through him like a once-forgotten memory.

 _Kaan_.

Its knowledge absorbed, the glow ebbed. It was the first word of a Shout, a call that would calm wild animals. Saitama understood it, the Word rooted deep in his soul, as if he had always known it. In a previous life, perhaps, another Dragonborn. He blinked back to himself, for a moment disoriented. He recognised other words on the Wall, phrases taught to him by the Greybeards – beast, servant, forest – but not enough to understand the whole passage.

A soft gasp drew him from his daze.

He turned to find Genos stood rigid at the far end of the chamber, his back to the Nord, staring at something Saitama could not see. Worried, Saitama jogged toward him. He slowed to reach the blond, then stopped when he spotted the reason for his exclamation.

Through the gloom, lit by the fire in Genos’s hand, a man lay propped against the foot of the wall. Middle-aged, dressed in robes and an amulet of Akatosh. Even with one side of his scarred, ghostly pale head pressed to the rock – features blank and slack – Saitama recognised the sorcerer from the Arch-Mage’s description.

Eirik Gulbrand.

“It … no,” Genos breathed. Any and all traces of anger had vanished from his face, replaced by horror. “No, _no_ , he … he is _dead_.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FwFrOgh1mc0)
> 
> Dovahzul (dragon language) translation:  
>  _Thuri_ \- "master"
> 
>  **Context notes** :  
> * **Draugr** are undead Nordic warriors of ancient Skyrim. They once served the Dragon Priests.  
>  * **Dragon Priests** are powerful undead, who (at the behest of the dragons) ruled over Skyrim thousands of years ago. After the Dragon War, in which mankind rebelled against them, the Priests planned their own resurrections for when the dragons returned to Skyrim. The Priest fought by Saitama and Genos is named Otar the Mad.  
>  * _Kaan_ is the first word in the Shout called “Kyne’s Peace”, which allows the Dragonborn to calm all wild animals except frost trolls. Kaan means Kyne (Kynareth’s old name) in dragon tongue.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	7. The Only Cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Content warnings_ : mentions of suicide; animal death (rabbit, elk)

*

 

The sorcerer looked to have been dead a while.

Detached, Saitama stepped forward and dropped into a squat beside the corpse. He pressed two fingers behind the man’s ear, in search of a pulse. He did not expect to find one, more a formality than anything. Eirik was stone-cold to the touch, as predicted, skin hard and bloodless. He had been here for weeks, at least. There were no wounds that Saitama could see, no marks to suggest the draugr had killed him. Saitama noticed that one of the man’s hands was fastened tight around something, clenched where it rested on the floor. He pried the rigid fingers open to reveal a tiny, unmarked glass vial. The bottle sat empty in Eirik’s palm, save for a trace of black liquid at its rim.

Poison … suicide?

Suspicious, Saitama peeled back one of Eirik’s eyelids. The orb was dull and glassy, the iris a brilliant shade of silver. It reminded him of Aela and Farkas, the Companion people he had met outside Whiterun.

“Huh,” he said, and straightened out of his crouch. “Well, that’s one way to meet Hircine. Werewolves go to his Hunting Grounds when they die.”

He turned around.

Genos had not moved, stance loose, fingers slack around his handful of fire. He did not seem to breathing. He blinked out of his trance when he sensed Saitama’s stare, bolstered his expression as best he could.

Unease churned inside the mage. Shock, disbelief, confusion. It was not supposed to be this way. His stomach would not unclench, limbs cold and heavy, eyes burning. _It was not supposed to be this way_. He did not understand, could not process the maelstrom. He refused to. He was dreaming – he had to be. Anger bubbled to the forefront, made his fingers curl and snuff out the magical flames.

Eirik had taken everything, now even his shot at revenge. Numbness settled on his shoulders, dragged them down, when he came to a terrible realisation.

With the one who cursed him dead, soul lost to Oblivion, his only hope for a cure lay with the Daedric Prince of the Hunt himself.

Why bother?

Faintly, he felt an impact at his back. The world went dark behind his mismatched hands, though he had no memory of clamping them to his face.

He had nothing left, nothing to gain. Removing the ring would not grant him back a family or a home, or a shot at a normal life. He had fantasised long and hard on killing Eirik, yearned to _hurt_ that devil of a man – and with that chance stripped from him, denied, he felt empty. Vacant, directionless. For four years the thought of vengeance had sustained him, given him strength when he ought to fall, the ghosts of his hometown driving him forward.

Now he was alone, without a purpose, stranded in this gods-forsaken iceberg of a country.

The warmth of a hand came to rest on his shoulder, coaxed him from his despair.

He blinked alert, back to Ragnvald, and found Saitama knelt beside him on the floor. The weight of his hand grounded him, and Genos realised he had backed into the wall – slid down it in his daze. The whispers of candles filled his ears, the distant shift of dust and rocks, the smell of damp and decay and stale air.

“Come on,” said Saitama. “Let’s get out of here.”

Genos bowed his head, and allowed the Nord to help him to his feet.

He could not bring himself to rekindle his rage toward Saitama. With so much to think about, to come to terms with, the incident in Markarth seemed insignificant. He understood why Saitama had acted the way he did, should have realised his threats toward Thonar were a ruse. The fear before the wolf took him was awful, had shaken him. Now all he felt was tired, drained, without sensation. All he wanted was to sleep, so that he might wake up from this nightmare.

On the long walk out of Ragnvald, Genos listened to Saitama’s attempts at optimism. The Nord explained the new Word of Power he had learned, how the incomplete Shout would let him calm the wolf. He mentioned a werewolf pack he had heard lived in Solstheim, wondered aloud if they knew how to tame a feral beast form. He explained the bargains he had made with Daedric Princes in the past, how such transactions were only risky if one was impulsive – but said he had never dealt with Hircine before, so be careful.

Genos appreciated what he was trying to do.

As they reached the entrance chamber, able to see the black door that led out to Skyrim, it occurred to him that he had only heard Saitama Shout on his behalf. The mage found his own voice to point this out, asked _why_ when the Nord was otherwise so reluctant to use his power. Genos’s words sounded hollow even to himself, and Saitama stopped walking.

“You were right, that night at the giants’ camp,” he said, gaze downcast. Shadows played across his face in the torchlight, dust motes swirling thick between them. “I didn’t ask to be Dragonborn, like you didn’t ask to be cursed. We’re … a lot alike, I guess.”

The mage looked to the engraved doorway. He would not have called being Dragonborn a _curse_ , but kept quiet.

When they emerged from the temple, Genos was taken to find the moons high. They had spent so long inside Ragnvald that night had fallen: their spot in the mountains gave a spectacular view of the stars, wispy pink clouds draped over a cobalt sky. The roaming wind carried soft owl calls along the peaks, the trill of crickets and night creatures.

The sounds filled him, soothed him, and he fell still on the flat stone between the mouth of the temple and its tiered steps. The insects sang so loud, he could barely hear his own thoughts. A tree creaked in the breeze, the _snap_ of dry bark and murmuring branches. He wanted to lie down, to bask in the sweet noise of the wilds, let the sound pass through him and wash away the horrible emotions in his cramped chest.

“Let’s camp here,” Saitama’s voice pushed through the dark. Genos tore away from the heavens in time to watch him shrug out of his rucksack, watched him dump it at their feet. “Ground’s flat, and there’s good cover if it rains. Set up, yeah? I’ll catch us some supper.”

With that, he ventured off into the trees.

Robotic, Genos built a small campfire with wood from the pack and laid out the bedrolls. Saitama returned minutes later, rabbit in hand. Still listless, Genos lit the fire and they ate in silence. They watched the heavens for a while, comfortable in each other’s presence, Saitama pointing out the stars whose names he knew and telling tales of their legends. Genos listened, let the words flow over him. Eventually, after much stifled yawning, Saitama called it a night and lay down.

The mage stayed awake for another hour, seated in his bedroll. He continued to study the sky, traced constellations and the shadows of birds against the blue. For a spell, he considered taking out his journal – drawing the shapes he saw in the clouds – but weariness kept his arms weighed down.

He felt so lost.

For as long as he could remember, he had planned to end his own life along with the sorcerer’s. He had often dreamed of the day he would avenge his family, his home and neighbours. He cared not what happened afterward, if his soul became too sullied by wrath to pass into the afterlife. All that mattered was retribution: he was a being of justice, a harbinger of death and fury.

He looked to his hands, one pale and the other gleaming gold, limp in his lap.

Who was he now?

At his side, Saitama snored. Genos looked to him, gazed upon his sleeping face. Saitama had purpose, he thought; he was Dragonborn. He had his destiny, his duty to Skyrim and her people. He would always have a purpose, even if he refused it. People needed him. No-one needed Genos, would even notice if he disappeared.

The Nord shifted in dreams, nuzzled deeper into his threadbare pillow.

No, Genos thought, that was wrong. _Saitama_ would notice if he disappeared.

Because Saitama would be alone again.

The mage did not understand why this thought hurt worse than those of his own failure. It was absurd, that Saitama would be left with no-one – would have no-one who appreciated or respected him, no-one to tell stories to or eat with. The very concept was unacceptable.

Genos did not have nothing. He realised this now. He had Saitama, someone who used his incredible gifts for Genos and only Genos. Saitama, who claimed he felt nothing but smiled so subtly when their eyes met. Saitama, who valued Genos’s meagre existence more than his own legendary fate; who could tame dragons and frighten bears, but rationed his money like an old widow, and got excited at the promise of a hot meal.

 _Saitama_ , who cared.

Resolve stoppered Genos’s airways.

He could never take his own life, if it meant leaving this man alone.

Moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes, but the mage scrubbed it away. He then reached out, tugged Saitama’s blanket a little higher up his shoulder to stave off the cold. He still did not know what he would do about the curse – but at least, for tonight, he would not make any rash decisions.

If he wanted to be rid of the ring, and the wolf, his only hope now was some sort of deal with Hircine. The thought sickened him: the Daedra were evil, tricksters. They were not to be trusted, the Princes least of all. Hircine had given lycanthropy to mortalkind … he was not known for taking it away.

Genos pushed the thoughts aside. He could think about this in the morning, with a well-rested mind from a good night’s sleep.

Nearby, a branch snapped.

He sat bolt-upright, all tiredness gone, motionless and alert in the half-light. He dared not blink. The music of the night faded as he listened, crickets silent and birdsong muted. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the stillness, and he shivered.

He reached aside, grabbed Saitama’s shoulder and shook. The Nord gave a muffled grunt and rolled over, muttered something into his pillow.

Another noise, closer – somewhere ahead, over the edge of the steps that led down through the mountainside. Genos squinted, listened hard. It sounded like hooves on the dirt, cloven feet through scrubby undergrowth and stone, the sibilance of parted grass. Too light and slow to be an explorer on horseback, too heavy for a goat or boar. He summoned his bow, readied an arrow as he slid out of his bedroll and onto one knee.

Over the edge of the steps, a brilliant white stag stepped into view.

It was a stunning thing, large and sleek, pelt agleam in the moonlight. The elk almost seemed to glow, ethereal and noble. Its antlers shone like polished ivory, eyes dark and intelligent; Genos lowered his bow, eased the tension in its drawstring. Curiosity gripped him, intrigue, reverence.

He had never seen a creature so beautiful.

The elk approached the campsite, calm, wandered close to the dying campfire. It came to a halt across the flames from Genos, and made a faint sound that could have been a question. That wise stare did not leave his awed one, somehow expectant.

After what felt like an age, the stag appeared to lose interest. It gave a snort, turned around, and bounded back down the steps and out of sight.

Genos let out a breath, and dismissed his weapon. As the sound of hooves faded, Saitama rolled over again and cleared his throat.

“You say somethin’?” he said, thickly.

Genos gave a start, and sank back into his bedroll. “There was a stag,” he said, almost breathless from the grace of it. “I tried to wake you. It was beautiful … bright white.”

Saitama’s brow rumpled. “A white stag?” he said, and cracked open one sleepy eye. “Huh.”

Genos frowned. “What?”

“Nnn,” Saitama hummed, and he nestled down again. He worked through a deep sigh, pliant and relaxed at the fringe of dreams. “S’just an old wives’ tale. Hircine’s s’posed to possess ’m, lets folks hunt him.”

Genos stared at him. “And,” he said, “if his hunters are successful, they can speak with him?”

Saitama nodded into his pillow. He seemed not to realise what the mage had asked, already sinking back into unconsciousness. Genos then looked over the crest of the steps, in the direction the elk had fled.

Quietly, he slipped out of bed and donned his boots.

He tried not to think as he descended the rocky steps, tried not to hope, passing under the pointed archways and onto rough, open ground. A natural path led down the mountainside, woven between clustered flowers and thin pines, worn by game and lit by the moons. The mage summoned his bow again on the forested slope, headed east. Twigs cracked with every step, the undergrowth noisy beneath his soles, no matter how slow or light he tried to move. The rustle of branches in wind painted the night, birdsong and insects still hushed.

A flash of white through the trees, and he stopped dead.

He saw the elk, stood serene and grazing perhaps ten feet away, half-hidden by foliage. With measured movements, he conjured an arrow to his bowstring. Breath held, he took aim.

Abruptly, the stag glanced up. The sudden movement startled him, and his arrow buried itself into the trunk beside its target.

The stag ran.

Genos scrambled in pursuit, slipped on the rocks with heart racing, footfalls frantic and loud in the darkness. The trees grew too dense for a clear shot; he would have to give chase until an opportunity arose. The elk bounded ahead, always just _barely_ in sight, as if to taunt him.

They raced past an empty dragon burial mound, through juniper bushes and tight-knit boughs, up and down the beaten path in the mountainside. The stag was much faster than he, more agile, and more than once, he thought he had lost it. He ran as hard as he could on the uneven dirt, followed the glimpses of white at a dangerous descent. They passed beneath a stone walkway, upon which lurked a number of bandits; the mage ignored them and their arrows, no time to stop and defend himself.

When the stag leaped off a cliff, Genos did the same without hesitation. The elk had jumped so fearlessly that he assumed the drop was safe, but realised his error too late. A small outcrop of rock overlooked a stream below – _far_ below. He landed wrong on the ledge, felt a sharp jolt of heat in his ankle, and fell with a shout. He tumbled over the edge and down the slope to flat ground, came to rest on a cobbled road that ran alongside the river. His conjured bow burst into wisps of purple, its Magicka – and his energy – spent.

He tried to get up, to keep running, but gasped and dropped to all fours at the pain in his foot. It did not feel broken, at least, perhaps a sprain. The roar of the river filled his ears, buzzing wings where dragonflies skated over the water, mudcrab claws and the hum of a Nirnroot plant on the mossy banks. He heard the elk’s hooves pound the road, fading, and looked up, eyes narrowed in a grimace. Uninjured in the fall, the stag ran on.

In frustration, Genos tossed a fireball as hard as he could at the stag. He fell flat before he saw it hit, exhausted, the moist ground cool under his face.

He lay there and panted for a while, willed himself to overcome the throbbing in his leg. It occurred to him that he had no idea where he was: he doubted he could make the climb back to Saitama, with his injury, even if he _did_ remember the route. Carefully, he gathered his strength and pushed onto hands and knees. Through the ache, he noticed the sounds of the night rise again – a pleasant symphony, predator and prey in tandem.

Hairs rose on the back of his flesh arm, under the furs, and he snapped up his head.

The stag lay dead several metres away, motionless on the road. The stag also stood before him, translucent and ethereal, a ghost. Proud even in death, its grace and beauty knew no bounds. The soft glow of its form coloured the earth, tinted blue all it touched.

“Well met, hunter.”

The voice, lithe and cruel, seemed to come from the spectral stag. Genos staggered upright, stumbled on his injured foot. The ghost watched him, unflinching. He peered into its wise eyes, breaths ragged from the sprint, before a wave of accusation steadied him.

“Are you Hircine?” he said.

The ghost pawed the ground as though offended. “I am the Spirit of the Hunt,” it said, arrogance incarnate, “just one glimpse of the glorious stalker your kind calls ‘Hircine’.”

Genos clenched his fists.

“I have watched you, child, for some time,” said the aspect of Hircine. “I do not bother myself with the trifles of mortals … but each time you utter my name, I hear the bitterness in your voice. Even now, while you stand before me, I sense it from you. Your wrath has caught my attention. I sought you out, that we might speak.”

The mage swallowed hard. Revulsion simmered in his lungs, the urge to get as far away from the Daedric Prince as he could. The ghost could not harm him, he knew, yet his body trembled as if under threat.

What had Saitama said? Bargains with the Daedra were only risky if one was impulsive.

“What would you ask of me?” he bit out.

“You are swift and strong, for a mortal,” said Hircine. “If … _unrefined_. You make a fine werewolf, your instincts and power worthy of a place in my Hunting Grounds. Yet, you forsake my blessing. It is … incomprehensible to me.”

Genos shook his head. “I am not a werewolf.”

The ghostly stag bowed its head, antlers aglow in the starlight. “You have pursued your quarry for four mortal years,” it said. “Don’t you enjoy the thrill of the hunt, child? The rush in your veins as you stalked your prey, the thrill when you imagined your claws finding the warmth of his flesh? Today, were you not devastated to learn that your kill had escaped you – your bloodlust not sated?”

“I did not hunt him for sport, or because a beast inside me demanded I do so,” Genos shot. He slashed a hand through the air, fought the desire to spit on the ground at the spectre’s feet. “I hunted him for revenge, for justice. I am a _man_ , cursed. The only beast in me resides _here_ –”

He whipped up his arm, the carved ring on full display; its grim, wolfish face glinted in the moonlight. The ghostly stag failed to react, passive beneath his glare.

“–and you will tell me how to remove it,” Genos finished.

The stag shifted in place, snorted. Genos did not lower his hand, winded by desperation. The sounds of the night droned on, unheeded, sibilant water and zephyrs.

“I will forgive your insolent tone,” said Hircine, “and consider your demand. But first, you must do a service for my glory.”

“Tell me,” Genos said again.

The stag jerked its head. “Throughout this land,” it said, “a group of savages slays my children. There is no sport in it; they kill werewolves not for the pleasure of the hunt, but because they believe my blessing filthy and evil. Not unlike yourself, child. They call themselves the Silver Hand.”

The name rang familiar. “I know of them,” said Genos.

Hircine’s aspect flicked its stubby tail. “A pack of them cower like rats in an old fort northeast of here,” it said. “Go there, child, and slay them – but not with your magic. If you wish to earn my favour, you must carry out this task in your beast form.”

Genos scowled, sure he had misheard. “And how am I to do that?” he said. “I am not the wolf. It comes over me of its own will, and I lose all control and coherence. I cannot influence what it does.”

“I am aware,” said Hircine. The ghost straightened importantly, pawed the ground. “I am gracious, boy. Should you accept, I will grant you a gift. To help you complete my task, I will trade now my ring for true beastblood.”

The mage blinked.                                     

The spirit held his gaze. “With the beastblood, you may change form as you desire,” it said. “There will be no more forced transformations, no loss of consciousness. You will retain complete control, and may hunt as you are meant to.

“Once you have slain the Silver Hand,” the spectral elk went on, calm and calculating, “return to me here. If your feelings toward my blessing remain unchanged, even after tasting the lifeblood of prey, I will cleanse you of the beastblood.”

Genos looked away to think it over.

Hircine would swap his ring for true lycanthropy – giving him total control over the wolf – and then remove the beastblood for good if he dealt with the Silver Hand. All he had to do was kill a handful of murderers? In theory, it seemed … simple.

He detached himself from thoughts of the act itself, focused on the reward. The Silver Hand had attacked him, the night he met Saitama. He was not a beast then, yet they had come after him. They meant to kill him – would have, if not for Saitama.

He assumed that very few werewolves _chose_ to be so. It was a disease, a curse, or both. Certainly not a _blessing_ , not one he felt anyone would ask for. When the Silver Hand hunted werewolves, they slaughtered either fools tricked by Hircine or unlucky wanderers infected by chance.

Saitama’s words about mercy floated through his mind, but he shook them off. The Silver Hand were cruel, pitiless, and prejudiced. Killing them to gain Hircine’s favour would stain his soul no more than if he had found Eirik Gulbrand in time.

If he did this, he would earn a chance at a normal life with Saitama. He imagined campsites and adventures, felling giants and trolls and dragons alongside the kindest man he had ever known. The mental images rushed within him, and he _yearned_. Without the ring, the wolf, there would be no constant apprehension – no fear of losing control, and putting Saitama at risk.

He wanted that life.

Genos looked to the ghostly stag. “I accept your terms,” he said.

The elk bowed its head. “Fly, hunter,” it said. “Many vie for my favour. Few find it.”

Then the spirit was gone, faded to empty air like steam, leaving Genos alone with its singed corpse and the mudcrabs on the riverbank.

A moment later, the ring slipped off his finger.

It hit the cobbled road with a _clink_ , bounced away and into the stream. The water carried it off, gone to curse some other hapless soul. Genos raised his naked hand in wonder, marvelled at the band of pale skin where the ring had clung. His finger looked so strange without it, he thought, the knuckle cold and sensitive where air touched for the first time in four years.

The smell of the wilds then slammed into him, and he choked.

It was as though the volume had been turned up on his senses, overwhelmed. Smell was the most intense: he could not breathe for the scent of soil, of wet rocks and mud and tundra grasses, of dead trees and hanging moss. Juniper and mountain flowers, spray from a small cascade in the stream. Deer and rabbits, hidden nearby, birds and squirrels and foxes, musky odours like trails of colour in the air. The stench of salmon leaping upstream, charred flesh from the dead elk before him.

A long, high, distant howl dragged him from the chaos, the scuttling of mudcrabs and the burbles of the stream. Dimly, he realised he had fallen to his knees. He also realised that the howl had been _his_. The sounds grounded him, and he fisted his hands in the dirt. He heard things he had never noticed before; the pull of shallow gasps in his chest, the individual kiss of grass blades, the lapping of foam at saturated banks. Rustling, the hiss of crickets louder than ever before.

The night whirled around him, moonlight impossibly clear. It stirred something deep within him, something primal and fierce, and he squeezed his eyes shut where he hunched. He felt it, felt the beastblood in his veins. It worked its way out of him in a growl, and a shudder arched his back like a whip-crack.

He did not mean to change, to let the wolf loose – did not even realise what was happening until the sound of his breaths took on a guttural edge. There was no pain, none of the familiar nausea or fear – only the sensation of _something_ just out of reach. Something he needed, something incredible, like air after a long sprint, or water after days in the deserts of Hammerfell.

He stayed curled on all fours, panting hard long after the sensation faded, forehead pressed to the ground. His ears flicked, the movement involuntary, nose twitching. He felt powerful, different to when he used magic. This was physical strength. Chest tight, he unfurled from his hunch. His muscles tugged and strained in new ways, the ache in his ankle gone, but he dared not look down at himself.

His vision had changed, colours somehow drained and pale, blurred at the edges. He _saw_ the scents of the living, birds and mammals hidden in the wilderness around him, the smells so strong that they shimmered before his eyes. Once the shock ebbed, he stood straight. Fascination ruled his thoughts, intrigued despite himself, wonder at the strength in his limbs.

A new scent touched his nostrils. Nord, male, warm blood and leather. _Familiar_. He sniffed it out, turned around on padded paws to pinpoint the source.

Saitama.

Genos froze when he saw him, stood a few feet back on the cobbled road. Startled, Genos made to cry his name. A strangled grunt left his mouth instead, lips incapable of shaping words. The Nord wore neither his backpack nor his boots – but a deep, heavy frown almost dark enough to match the midnight sky.

He looked so disappointed.

Genos’s first instinct was to flee – but he knew there was no point in running. Saitama could catch him without breaking a sweat. He felt a sudden chill raise his fur, a stab of shame, and willed himself to shift back. There was a moment of panic when he realised that he did not know _how_ , before his body rippled on its own.

Through the transformation, he sensed Saitama’s eyes on him. The shame grew, suffocating, and he found himself unable to look at his mentor, even after he had found his human skin again.

“How long have you been there?” he said.

Even from this distance, he heard Saitama swallow. “Long enough.”

Reluctantly, Genos brought his gaze up from the ground. When their eyes met, he saw shock flash across Saitama’s face. The Nord said nothing, however, but would not look away. Suspicious, Genos raised his metal arm. In the back of his hand, he saw his own reflection. As predicted, his eyes had changed colour: their irises shone bright silver in the moonlight, just like those of Aela and Farkas and Eirik, the only outward sign of his beastblood.

“Genos,” said Saitama, abrupt and troubled. The mage lowered his makeshift mirror to find the Nord wringing his fingers, uncharacteristically nervous. “You can’t do this.”

Genos shook his head. “This is not permanent,” he said, and glanced to the river. “But, it _is_ the only way.”

“No, it’s not,” said Saitama. He stepped forward, made a motion as if he wanted to clutch the blond’s elbow. “You can’t just go around making deals with Daedric Princes. I should know. You can’t go kill those people.”

The mage frowned. “What other choice do I have?”

This time, the Nord did not hold himself in check. He took his student by both arms, brows drawn together in concern. “Genos, it’s _over_ ,” he said. “You’ve got the ring off, and Eirik’s dead. You’re free.”

Genos yanked out of his grip. “Did you not hear Hircine?” he said. “I am not free. I have to do what he says, and then he will cure me for good. He will leave me be.”

“That’s not how it works,” Saitama pressed. “Once you fill a deal with the Daedra, they _own_ you. They call on you whenever they want something, and the stuff they make you do? It’s not nice.”

“They call on _you_ , master,” said Genos, “because you are Dragonborn. I am no-one. Once I do this for Hircine, he will cure and forget about me.”

Saitama hissed a sigh through his nose, glanced aside. The sounds of nature swelled, Genos more attuned to them than before. Some of the beast’s senses crossed into his own, it seemed, scents potent and distracting.

“You can just … _not_ transform, right?” said Saitama. Genos cast him a curious look, confused by the suggestion. “Act human, don’t become the wolf. You don’t have to kill those people.”

Genos’s puzzlement became incredulity. “You are a hypocrite,” he said.

Saitama flinched, uncomfortable where he stood barefoot in the road. “Sure, I’ve killed folks,” he said, voice low. “Bandits and Forsworn and crazy mages, but only because they attacked _me_ , first. It’s always self-defence. This is different, kid. The Silver Hand has done nothing to provoke you.”

“They attacked me, the night we met,” Genos reminded him. He stiffened. “They hunt werewolves.”

“And you’re an activist for werewolf rights, all of a sudden?”

The mage brushed past him. “Please, enough,” he said. An inkling of guilt trickled through the irritation, and his tongue soured. “Do not stop me. I must do this one thing for Hircine. Only then, can I move on with my life.”

He set off at a walk, a quick stride northeast, along the riverbank. He counted four steps before Saitama spoke again, and the words stopped him cold.

“So, this isn’t a suicide mission?”

Knotted brow in the lead, Genos turned around. Saitama had not moved, rooted and suddenly blank-faced. The mage saw him lick his lips, heard the rustle as he smoothed a crease from his leathers.

“I figured,” he said, “with Eirik dead and all … what you said, in the giants’ camp? You said once you took care of him, you’d go be with your family. I thought … I thought you were gonna throw yourself at the Silver Hand just now, and let them kill you.”

Genos ducked his head.

Saitama’s restless toes curled in the earth. “Was I wrong?”

The mage opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. An owl hooted softly in his stead, and he tugged at the collar of his furs. For Saitama to have remembered that conversation so well, he must have thought about it a lot. The prospect spawned an ache in Genos’s chest, and he closed his eyes.

“I no longer have intentions of ending my life,” he said, all-but whispered to the night. “But … that does not mean I have another plan. For the last four years, the thought of revenge has been my driving force. It has kept me alive. But Eirik is dead, by another hand than my own, and … there is no closure. I … I do not know what I should do now … what I feel.”

Saitama listened with a heavy heart. He was relieved to hear the change in his pupil’s mindset, and yet … he pondered what he could do to comfort him. That night when Genos had cried, a hug had seemed to soothe him. While there were no tears in this moment, the blond seemed far from happy; the look did not suit his handsome face, and smothered Saitama’s happiness by proxy.

Cautious, the Nord stepped closer. When Genos did not flinch away, as he had outside Ragnvald, Saitama wrapped his arms around him.

Several seconds passed before he felt Genos’s mismatched hands slide up over his leathers. A hot breath seeped through the cloth at his collar, a sigh, and Saitama gave him a gentle squeeze. Contact felt good, a pleasant bubble in his chest, and he hoped it felt the same for Genos. He wanted to prolong it for as long as possible, to hug the mage and never let him go, to be even _closer_ to him despite how their chests were pressed flush.

He wanted to make sure he was never unhappy again.

“I’m sorry for what I did before,” he said, gaze fixed on the stars where his chin tipped to rest on the mage’s shoulder. “You were right … I abused your trust. We should’ve, I dunno, planned for it, what to do – or not – if you lost it in public.”

He felt Genos shake his head again, hair tickling at his ear and bare scalp. “I should have known you would not allow me to harm anyone,” he murmured back. “Forgive me, master. I will not doubt you again.”

Saitama swallowed his exasperation. Affection soon washed it away, and he chuckled. Not for the first time, he felt the urge to kiss him. “You’ll never let me apologise without putting yourself down, will you?”

Genos reigned in a smile. “No,” he said. He wriggled and they leaned apart – though not by much. Still in each other’s hold, Genos felt surprisingly comfortable.

His mind buzzed blank, calm and warm. This closeness felt so natural that he did not think to pull away, to let go of his teacher. Saitama’s mouth hung before his, one corner curved upward at a charming slant. He seemed relaxed, half-smile bright with anticipation. For the first time, so close together, Genos noticed how soft his lips looked. Dimly, he wondered what they felt like.

The stray thought triggered an alarm bell in the blond’s mind, and his eyes widened when he realised Saitama was leaning in.

 _Panic_.

Genos locked his joints, a breath lodged in his throat, stopped his mentor short before their lips could touch. Saitama went rigid when the blond seized up, his dark eyes flaring wide in alarm. Worry paled his features, fear that he had done something wrong – crossed a line, or made false assumptions.

Genos blanched when he realised that no, he had no problem _whatsoever_ with the idea of kissing Saitama.

He stepped back, jerked out of his mentor’s hold. Saitama let him, frozen on the spot. Genos whirled away, clamped one hand over his mouth and the other to his clenched stomach. Anxiety made his insides squirm with heat, flustered and dazed by the sudden realisation.

Once his heart rate had levelled out, he glanced over his shoulder to find Saitama faced off to one side. The only change in his expression was a dusting of colour in his ears, red-hot embarrassment with an apologetic twist.

“M-master, just now–”

“Nothing,” Saitama cut in, fists clenched. “Sorry. Forget it.”

The Nord turned on his heel, began to march away. Genos darted forth before he could take two steps, and grabbed a handful of his leathers. Saitama stopped dead, but refused to face him. The colour in his ears spread as Genos watched, fanned out into his cheeks and up his nape, and his shoulders rose as if to hide it.

Even with his vast vocabulary, Genos fumbled for words. It was as if the world had been unfocused, fuzzy at the edges, like looking through frosted glass. Now he saw in sharp relief, and Saitama _made sense_. Saitama helped _Genos_ , Shouted for _Genos_ , got embarrassed when _Genos_ insisted they share a room at the inn in Winterhold.

“Are you …” said the blond, and he swallowed hard. “Master, are you attracted to me?”

Saitama struggled to hear him over the pounding in his ears. He had not felt like this in years, so small and vulnerable, adrenaline coursing. Against everything in him that screamed he should run and hide, he forced himself to meet the mage’s eerie silver eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, “I am.”

Genos stared.

Those three short words struck him with the force of a Shout, and pain in his lungs reminded him to breathe. He could not take in Saitama’s answer, like water bouncing off a soaked pelt, heart and head already each a tangled mess from the day’s events. Confused, ecstatic, and frightened, Genos took the only course of action he saw that would not end with him as an overwhelmed heap in the dirt.

He turned around, and walked away from the conversation.

He sensed, more than heard over the rush of the stream, Saitama’s splutter. What he neither sensed nor heard were the hurried footfalls of pursuit – because the stunned Nord stayed rooted where he was. Genos willed himself onward, terrified to show his face, strides long and swift with fear.

“S-shouldn’t we talk about this?”

Saitama’s question came strained, hurt, and Genos quashed the urge to run back to him and apologise. He lacked the mental capacity to do anything but escape, emotions frayed and on the verge of breakdown.

“Not now,” he managed. “I … I cannot think about this right now.”

Before Saitama could point out the quaver in his voice, Genos broke into a run. He fled, left his mentor alone and bewildered at the riverside.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=06H_6oI4EK4)
> 
> **Context notes** :  
> * In the game, the **Aspect of Hircine** is encountered during the quest ‘Ill Met by Moonlight’. The player must hunt and kill a white stag to speak with Hircine, who will remove the player’s cursed ring in exchange for a favour.  
>  * I based Genos’s werewolf-form senses off the [Wolf Senses](https://steamcommunity.com/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=116183209) PC mod, which enables the Night Eye skill (seeing in the dark) as well as the Detect Life spell effect (living creatures glow red to reveal their locations). The base game does a poor (read: non-existent) job of reflecting the wolf’s heightened sense of smell!
> 
> [Tumblr](http://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	8. Striking the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Content warnings_ : skeletons and corpses; light gore

*

 

Genos was a fool.

He told himself as much while he marched alongside the river, followed the cobbled road northeast beneath the first blush of an aurora. He smelled nightshade and wet earth, the sweetness of overhanging trees and slender ferns, crickets as raucous as ever. He slowed his pace when the path led him to a crossroads, and stopped altogether to inspect the signpost there. Its arms pointed toward the major cities nearby, though their names made little sense in the mage’s mind.

Saitama, strongest man in the world and legendary hero, had as good as confessed, bared his soul in the most open and vulnerable way possible. And how had Genos responded? He had run away, dodged an answer like a frightened child.

He felt disgraceful, humiliated by his own shortcomings. The day’s events and his personal crisis had taken their toll, kept him from thinking straight. Perhaps this excused his cowardice, his immaturity – but he could not stem the doubt, the shame. Saitama deserved a reply, one way or another.

Genos simply could not give one _right away_. He needed time to process, alone and without pressure, a chance to sift through the chaos in his mind. He felt like the proverbial camel, one straw away from a broken back. There was too much to think about, so many conflicting emotions that he did not know where to start.

He urged himself back into a walk, less hasty than before, stuck to the waterside until he reached a stone bridge over the river. The vegetation thickened, tall weeds and leaning trees.

He had never considered the prospect of a relationship.

Genos was aware, peripherally, that people fell in love. They married, and settled. Not everyone did, of course – few, actually, in Skyrim. Same-sex partnerships were not considered unusual, and Genos took no issue with the concept. Before he lost his family, he was too young for such things; and afterward, he had been so caught up in his quest – his lust for revenge – that he had never _noticed_ the people around him. He had never stayed in one place long enough to wonder, to imagine what it would be like.

He stopped halfway across the bridge, and tried to simplify his whirling thoughts.

Saitama was an incredible man. They had known each other for a mere four days, but Genos already felt quite attached to him. He wanted to know everything about him, to travel more with and encourage him. But … was he _attracted_ to him? Genos had never been in a relationship before; he had nothing to compare to what he felt for his mentor. He had no-one to ask for advice. He gazed out over the burbling stream, the calm water aglitter with starlight.

How did one know if they were in love?

He owed Saitama his life. The Nord steered him away from his darker thoughts, made him forget how awful the world and fate and _people_ could be. He was wise and inspirational, selfless, supportive and kind. Genos admired his humility, his power, the inner warmth he hid behind walls of apathy and indifference. For the first time in years, the mage almost felt good about himself. He had learned much from Saitama, even if his teacher did not see it.

Where was the line between friendship and _more_?

Genos shook his head. The twisted feelings toward losing his shot at revenge were easier to deal with than this.

His boots crunched on the stone when he set off again. He crossed the bridge to another signpost, entered a wide ravine of rock. Its natural walls framed one of Nirn’s two moons, its cratered surface cast pinkish-green by the aurora. As he walked, a half-destroyed tower loomed into view around the cliff. Genos pushed his thoughts aside, and stooped low to move with stealth.

The fort stood upon raised earth, exposed roots protruding from its foundation. He brushed through these coarse tendrils, kept close to the wall to eliminate his shadow. He saw light in the slit-like window of the closest tower, the glow of fire, smoke like a streamer from its crown. The vast building looked tiered, at least three storeys. The ground floor entrance stood ahead, a heavy wooden door lit by torchlight – and framed by the severed heads of six werewolves, mounted on spikes.

Genos stopped dead when he saw them. This was definitely the right place. He gulped down his revulsion, and slid into beast form.

The transformation felt smoother than last time. He supposed this was either result of voluntary change, or practice. Neither, he particularly wanted to think about. Walking upright, though doable, felt awkward and hunched, so he sank to all fours. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, and entered the fort.

Immediately, he stepped on something that _crack_ ed. Bones littered the floor, human and animal, the skull of a deer among them. The skeleton shards were white, old. Wooden beams creaked overhead, the crackle of firelight from candles, a low veil of mist over everything. Genos crept at a lope along the narrow, twisting entrance corridor; the whole building reeked of death, blood and metal and stale air. He tried not to breathe too deep, fur on end and mouth dry.

He came upon a large room, cold and dirty, mossy walls and stained tables of crockery. Smaller rooms lined the central chamber, with broken furniture and empty treasure chests. There were no people, Silver Hand or otherwise, only rats and dust. Genos ignored the staircase for now, chose to clear the ground floor before moving upward.

The final doorway he found was locked. He believed himself strong enough to force it, though did not wish to make noise: a sudden splintering of wood might alert the Silver Hand on floors above. He searched high and low for a key, but found none. Frustrated, he settled for pushing one meaty shoulder against it with as much strength as he dared.

“You could just ask,” said a hushed voice.

Genos whirled around in a rasp of claws on stone – and was shocked to find Saitama right behind him.

The Nord stood with one hand on his hip, lips drawn in an almost smug smile. _Smiling_ , as if his feelings had _not_ been shot down half an hour earlier. He must have returned to the campsite to gather his things; fully dressed, he fished through a side-pocket on his rucksack and pulled out a sliver of metal. He then set his free hand on Genos’s muzzle and forced him gently aside, and crouched before the door to pick the lock.

“Ever tell you I was in the Thieves Guild for a bit?” he whispered. “I wasn’t great at the sneaky part, but _this_ I can do.”

Genos watched him fiddle, disgruntled. He had assumed the Nord lacked the patience for this sort of finesse. Less than a minute later, with a _click_ , the door jerked open and Saitama nudged it wide. He stood, and strolled inside. With a grunt, Genos followed. Both were annoyed to find that the room held no more than barrels of food, wicker baskets, and bookshelves full of ale. Muttering at the waste of time, Saitama strode back toward the doorway – but before he could exit, Genos slipped past him. The werewolf blocked the threshold, filled the frame with his body to keep Saitama from leaving. At his confused look, Genos let out a low growl.

Though the Prince had not specified, Genos felt that Hircine would want him to deal with the Silver Hand alone. This was a test, a trial meant to make him value his beastblood. If Genos accepted help, it would mean he had not relied on his own abilities. Hircine _wanted_ Genos to stay a werewolf – so would dislike anything that stopped the mage from seeing his full ‘potential’.

Hircine would not want Saitama to aid him.

If the way Saitama’s face fell was any sign, his growl had not gotten this message across.

“Look,” said the Nord, quiet and weary. “You need space. I get it. I shouldn’t have … sprung that on you. Now’s not the time.”

Genos wanted to groan. Now was not the time, indeed.

Saitama seemed to sense his reluctance; he stepped forward, shoulders squared, one hand raised to calm him. “Just, know you don’t have to do _this_ alone,” he rushed out. A sour look overcame his face, but he suppressed it. “I’m not down with the whole killing thing – but, if this is something you think you have to do, I won’t stop you. I just don’t wanna see you get hurt.”

Genos appreciated his concern. All the same, he shook his head. Saitama’s shoulders sank, and his dark eyes drifted to the wicker baskets.

“All right,” he murmured. “Well … I’ll wait here, if you need me.”

Alone, Genos returned to the main room and climbed the staircase. A rat squeaked in passing, as if to chastise him, the noise echoing eerily. He snapped at it, and pushed through a door to the right. More speared wolf heads and skeleton parts decorated the hallway, but still no people. He stepped over pressure plates in the floor, traps rigged to trigger swinging gates of spikes.

Wary, and suspicious of the lack of activity, he loped onward to a living area. The space, also void of Silver Hand, held a mix of stained sleeping bags and actual beds, and sparse shelves of clothes and drink.

Aside from himself, Saitama, and the rats, he could not detect a single living scent – only cold blood and the tang of silver weapons.

Something was wrong.

The quarters opened onto a balcony over the main room, with a candlelit corridor that led to a curved stairwell. He climbed, over a tripwire and around a cart of boulders set to fall. The smells grew stronger in the ascent, though still lacked the warmth of life. Had the Silver Hand moved on from here, beneath Hircine’s notice? The thought chilled him; with his new nose, he could hunt them down without much trouble – but if it took too long, the sun would rise and people might see him. An audience would introduce all sorts of problems, and the possibility of collateral damage.

Genos’s keen senses pulled him to a smear of red near the top of the stairs. A bloodstain, old, at the base of the wall – then another, a few more steps up. He steeled himself, sluggish with dread, and rounded the corner into the final room.

Below an empty chandelier, a group of Silver Hand lay dead around the body of another werewolf. This beast had its head, but was equally deceased – covered in cuts and bruises through the fur. The corpses around it were mangled, weapons broken and armour slashed. There was so much blood, the stench so numbing, that Genos whined, shielded his nose from the burn of it. Saitama was there in an instant, rushing upstairs at the sound of his distress. The Nord skidded to a halt in the doorway, paralysed by the horror within, and cursed under his breath.

Startled by the noise, Genos gave him an alarmed look. Would he assume…? Saitama flapped his hands, quickly, aware there had not been enough time for Genos to have committed this slaughter. Genos let out a breath of strained relief, and coaxed himself back into human form.

“You’ve done well, hunter.”

The mage froze, halfway to his feet. He whipped around, and fell still at the sight of Hircine’s spirit.

This time, the Daedric Prince spoke through the essence of the dead wolf. The ghost stood boastful and proud at the centre of the room, unfazed by the devastation, hunched in an upright stance with fangs bared. When he remembered that the Daedra had spoken, Genos took a quick step forward.

“I did nothing,” he said, venomous. “What is the meaning of this? Did you know that the Silver Hand had already been defeated?”

As he spoke, he heard Saitama approach to stand by his side. Genos felt the urge to move in front of him – to shield him from the Daedra, absurd as the notion was. The Dragonborn needed no protection.

The ghost cocked its furry head. “I sent this child here long before you,” said Hircine. “He earned his place at my side. I put you on his trail as a test of resolve, and you did not disappoint. You bowed to my will, and stalked your prey without hesitation.”

Before Genos could protest, Saitama edged around him. His expression was taut, drawn, irritated. “If all you wanted was him to prove his ‘resolve’,” he said to the spirit, “then, he’s done that. Cure him, like you promised. Stop playing around.”

The wolf turned its see-through eyes on him. The Nord did not flinch, though Genos did; Saitama matched its glare with arms crossed, unblinking while the blond held his breath.

“I know who you are,” said Hircine, sinister and stern. “Do not presume to threaten me. I may not be able to lay claim to your soul, Dragonborn, but that does not mean I cannot cause you _great_ torment.”

A muscle twitched in Saitama’s jaw.

The ghost dismissed him to look back at Genos, who clenched his fists. “I will not strip you of my blessing myself,” said Hircine. The wolf spoke again at once, over Genos’s outrage. “It is something you must do on your own, earned freedom. You must prove to the wolf inside you that ‘purity’ is what you truly want.”

“How?” said Genos, through gritted teeth.

The spectral werewolf shook itself, as if to dislodge rain from its pelt. “A single one of my shrines remains intact in Skyrim,” it said, “in a place your kind calls Glenmoril Coven. You must take the heart of a werewolf there, kneel before my shrine, and consume it.”

Genos felt bile rise in his throat. “Consume … you want me to _eat_ the heart?” he said. Beside him, Saitama made a noise of disgust.

“Consuming the heart will draw out your beast spirit,” said Hircine. “Be warned, child. The beastblood is not a simple thing to cleanse. It will resist, as cornered prey fights for its right to draw breath.”

Saitama slashed a hand through the air. “But you just gave Genos the beastblood tonight,” he said. “‘Cleansing’ it wouldn’t be a problem if you’d just taken off his ring and left things there.”

“Where’s the sport in that?” said Hircine. Genos shivered at the dark smile in the Prince’s voice. The ghost shifted its ethereal weight, and fixed the blond with a predatory look. “The wolf will not leave easily. The cure may well kill you.”

Saitama clenched his jaw. “And, if it does …” he said, deep in thought, “ _you_ get his soul, in Oblivion. Because dead werewolves go to–”

“–Hircine’s Hunting Grounds,” Genos finished, wide-eyed. His features snapped into a glare, and he growled. “This was your plan all along. If I choose to keep the beastblood, my soul belongs to you. But if I try to cure myself, there is a fifty-fifty chance that I will die and you get my soul anyway!”

The ghost sank onto all fours. “Good hunting,” it leered, and vanished.

Silence fell in the bloody chamber, stifling, broken only by the groan of ceiling beams and Genos’s sharp, shallow breaths. He squeezed his fists so tight that they ached, trembled at his sides, unable to move. A rat squealed somewhere below, and there was a creak of leather as Saitama hooked a hand around his nape.

“ _This_ is why you don’t make deals with the Daedra,” he said, under his breath.

Genos glared at him. From the scandalised look he got in response, he knew Saitama had not meant for the blond to overhear. He swallowed his impatience with difficulty, shoved this new crisis aside to join the existing pile. He was starting to get a little _too_ good at that, he thought.

“Where is Glenmoril Coven?” he said.

Saitama cleared his throat. “Not too far,” he said. “Southeast a ways, in Falkreath hold. Near the border with Hammerfell.”

Genos nodded once, and paused. He looked to the dead werewolf on the floor, eyed its barrel chest with a sickly feeling in his stomach. “Master, I …” he said, almost inaudible. He swallowed hard. “I need to borrow your dagger.”

Saitama frowned at him for a moment. Once he followed the blond’s gaze, and realised his intentions, he let out a dry laugh. “A dagger’s not gonna go through the ribs, kid.”

The sickly feeling swelled. Before Genos could stop him, Saitama approached the dead wolf and knelt in a space in the blood. The blond reached out. “No,” he said, “this is my responsi–”

“You’ve already got the tough job,” Saitama spoke over him. Without a glance over his shoulder, at Genos, he pulled the knife from his rucksack.

When he lowered the blade to the wolf’s chest, Genos turned away. He tuned out, ignored the sounds and smells as best he could. Instead, against his better judgement, he focused on the daunting trial ahead.

In some cultures, he knew that every part of an animal was consumed. The knowledge did not reassure him; aside from how he did not know how long this particular beast had been dead, there was something terrible about the thought of a _heart_. A werewolf was part man, not entirely animal.

The thought knotted his stomach.

“We should try and keep it cold,” Saitama’s voice drifted from behind. Genos chose not to look, gave him chance to clean up. “You know any frost magic?”

“No,” said the mage.

“I’ll hang onto it, then. Best not keep it in your pocket. Body heat, y’know?”

Genos chanced a glance at his mentor. Saitama was busy wiping his hands and knife on a rag from his pack, a small bundle of cloth on the floor beside him. The blond stared at the lumpy bundle. It was larger than he had anticipated.

“We should set out before it spoils,” he said, the words sour in his mouth.

Saitama raised an eyebrow as he shrugged out of his backpack. Carefully, so that it would not get crushed, he stowed the wrapped heart inside the pot he used to skin fish. “What, right now?” he said. “We won’t make the trip tonight.”

Genos gestured toward the doorway. “Even if we fly on Kahodnir?” he said. “I thought you said Hircine’s shrine was not far from here.”

“It’s not,” said Saitama, almost amused as he got to his feet. “Definitely not far enough to call a _dragon_ for. C’mon, kid. We might as well get some sleep, travel by daylight.”

Genos squinted. Why was the Nord so placid all of a sudden? This was an urgent matter; he wanted the beastblood gone as soon as possible, before it could taint him. “I have no intention of sitting still,” he said. The sooner they set out, the sooner this whole ordeal would be over – one way or another. “I am not tired.”

Saitama ran a hand over his bare scalp. “Well, I am,” he said. Genos noticed no shadows under his eyes, a suspicious lack of creases at the corners. He looked as wide-awake as Genos felt, alert in the torchlight. “It’ll be dawn in a few hours, and I’m not a teenager like you.”

“Master, _please_.”

The Nord let out a long-suffering sigh, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll go now. But we’re stopping at Rorikstead. It’s a nice town, on the way, nice inn. _You_ need a good night’s rest, at least, if you’re gonna fight off some wolf spirit thing in the morning.”

Ah, Genos thought, of course. Of course Saitama feigned tiredness to mask his worry for the blond. Genos hung his head, though only for a moment. He should have expected such a thing from his mentor.

_You’ll never let me apologise without putting yourself down, will you?_

They retraced their steps downstairs and out of the fort, and moved east along the rock-strewn road by the glow of the aurora. A spectacular view stretched to the north; lush fields and hills, and a dark river winding toward the ocean. The colossal Throat of the World towered far in front through the darkness, vegetation rich, lazy torchbugs dotted about the trees.

The mage kept his voice to himself, guarded while they passed a campsite of Stormcloak soldiers. He had heard of civil unease within Skyrim, but this was the first he had seen of it. Saitama did not acknowledge the encampment, kept walking as if he could not see the tents and tethered horses. He led Genos up a rocky slope, to a small thatched hut in the hills. Their course took a more southern direction, then over a short drop onto the main road that passed through Rorikstead.

A small number of Stormcloaks patrolled the village, unperturbed but watchful, lit torches in hand. Genos doubted that straw roofs offered the quaint houses much protection against dragon attacks. The building straight ahead was the largest, with a cattle pen outside and a dull sign that he could not read from this distance. The travellers followed the thatched fence around the pen, their grass-muffled footfalls rousing cows within, past a dead tree and up the squeaky steps into the tavern.

The Frostfruit Inn very much resembled the tavern in Winterhold. Genos supposed that all public houses in Skyrim looked alike, as in High Rock. The roar of the fire pit washed over him, smoke acrid and hot, candles sputtering on tables and beneath wreaths on the support beams. The innkeeper was a scrubby-looking man, with patched clothes and only slightly more hair than Saitama. The Nords exchanged a few words, and coins, while Genos watched the dust swirl, before the landlord led them to the back room on the right.

The beds – two to choose from, this time – were hardly the height of luxury: a mattress of straw on a wooden frame, clothed by pelt sheets. Even if he were tired, Genos would not have paid good coin to sleep here. Saitama shucked his pack and all but fell onto one mattress, while Genos hovered at the small table by the wall.

“I think I will write a while,” he said, and pulled his journal from inside his furs.

Saitama kicked off his boots with a pinched expression. “All right,” he said. “Just, make sure you _do_ sleep, okay? And for the love of the gods, promise you won’t run off alone again.”

“I will stay with you, master.”

Somewhere outside, a dog barked. Saitama lay down atop the sheets, linked his hands behind his nape, and listened to Genos sit at the creaky chair. He could hear the cows through the wall, caught a stifled yawn from the innkeeper.

It had only been a few days, but it felt like an age since he last slept in a real bed. The mounted bear head over him was a little disconcerting, but he closed his eyes with a heavy sigh.

It should have been awkward, sharing a room tonight. It _was_ , to an extent, but nothing Saitama could not handle. Genos had asked him a direct question, after making his deal with Hircine, and Saitama had answered honestly. Perhaps a little _too_ honestly, and that had put the mage on the spot.

Still, Saitama did not regret telling the truth. He had dabbled with romance in his youth, many years ago, and in his experience, secrecy made everything pointlessly complicated. He lacked the patience to tread on eggshells – and with his sad excuse for a confession said and done, he could breathe easy. It was up to Genos, now.

At the same time, he did not expect anything to actually _happen_ with the blond. Genos deserved to know how attractive he was, enough to not beat himself up so much. He also deserved to be with someone better than _him_ , Saitama thought; someone younger, nicer-looking, with a full head of hair and no grim destiny hanging over them.

All the same….

The thought of spending time with Genos filled his insides with pleasant warmth, and he fell asleep to the scratches of his student’s quill.

Tonight’s dream bloomed slowly.

Light shrouded everything. Saitama drifted down, weightless in an ocean of white, sank through the endless void. He wore a roughspun tunic and footwraps, the outfit of a captive. It felt familiar. He heard hooves paw the ground, the chatter of citizens, felt cold air on his skin, smelled trees and hay and smoke.

The rush of an axe through the air, then a heavy _thud_.

_Next prisoner to the block!_

Frantic footfalls; someone being forced to walk.

 _I’m not a Stormcloak!_ His own voice. _Please, I’ve done nothing wrong!_

_On your knees, filth!_

The sounds faded, and Saitama opened his eyes.

A dragon loomed before him in the empty white.

There was none of the usual ferocity, no thunderous snarls or aggression. Instead, the winged lizard gave off a supreme sense of calmness. Massive and golden, the creature looked somehow regal – all smooth angles and stillness. He felt it in his soul, a grand and heavy _power_ radiating from it. Importance, righteousness.

Saitama looked into its eyes, and _knew_.

This was Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time.

The one who had made him Dragonborn.

Deep disappointment burned in its stare, a grave intelligence that pierced Saitama’s very soul. Apprehension gripped him, the overwhelming sense that he had displeased the god.

He opened his mouth to speak, to apologise without knowing why, but no words came out.

A second dragon emerged with a shriek, stalked into view around Akatosh. This one was jet-black, demonic, all hooked horns and cruel spines, with crimson eyes set fierce in a terrible face. It moved with predatory grace, on knuckled wings and taloned feet, jagged fangs bared.

Fear squeezed Saitama’s heart. He knew this beast, knew it like yin knew yang – like light knew dark. Images flashed through his head; a town on fire, ropes around his wrists, a Shout that rained down meteors and lightning.

He choked out its name.

“Alduin–!”

The black dragon snapped vicious jaws, crawled at a steady pace through the nothing toward him. Hunger blazed in its glare, bloodlust, _victory_. Saitama backed up; panic stiffened his muscles, primal and visceral, like nothing he had felt before. Storm clouds formed overhead, churned orange and red with flame.

“ _Hi lost funt, Dovahkiin_ ,” Alduin rumbled. “You have failed. _Hi nis filok zu’u ulse_!”

As the demon drew near, Saitama looked to Akatosh for help.

Akatosh turned away.

Alduin let out a roar, lunged, and sank its teeth into him.

“Master–!”

Saitama jerked awake, and was shocked to find himself on his feet.

He stood before a slanted stone pillar, outdoors, in a cluster of weeds on a rocky hillock. Dawn had broken; soft light wreathed the earth in pinks and golds, the sprawling trees and mountains cloaked with mist and dew. The Nord whirled on the spot, disoriented. He saw Rorikstead just to the south, at the foot of the hill, an empty burial mound far to the southwest. Genos stood a short distance back, halfway down the slope, utmost worry on his face as he watched his mentor gasp for breath.

A wave of nausea washed over Saitama, and he fell to his knees.

Genos was at his side at once, hands on his back and shoulder, steadying him. Saitama fisted his hands in the grass, felt himself tremble with dizziness. He felt ill, shaky, weakness he had not experienced since before his training with the Greybeards.

On all fours, he noticed a small shrine nestled in the weeds. The purplish statue sat at the base of the pillar, carved to resemble Akatosh: a dragon, curled around what looked like a chess pawn, with the tip of an upright sword in its mouth.

“Master,” Genos’s voice prompted. Saitama felt the metal hand on his back move, rub soothing circles between his shoulder blades. “Master, are you all right? I was not aware that you sleepwalked.”

Saitama swallowed his mouthful of bile, and tried to straighten up. “I-I don’t,” he said. He wiped a stripe in the sweat on his forehead, still winded by terror. “Oh, gods … that was….”

Genos helped him sit back on his haunches, and peered into his eyes. His smooth face hung close; Saitama would have admired it, if he were not busy fighting the contents of his stomach.

The nightmare had felt so real. He pressed a hand to his chest through his leathers, over where one of Alduin’s fangs had pierced. While there was no pain, the spot felt unusually tender. He blinked. Come to think of it … he looked to Genos’s hand on his shoulder, concentrated on the pressure of it. He felt the mage’s grip vividly, the warmth and the folds in the cloth where he squeezed. Saitama shivered, hyper-sensitive and woozy.

“You look pale,” said Genos. He slid his hands under his teacher’s armpits, and helped haul him to his bare feet. Without asking permission, the mage then hooked one of Saitama’s arms around his shoulders. “Lean on me. Perhaps the innkeeper has something to calm you.”

Saitama did as instructed, allowed the blond to share his weight. Genos helped him down the hillside, onto the road just outside Rorikstead. Saitama clung to him, drained and faint.

He felt _wrong_.

A sharp pain in his heel made him yelp and stumble, and Genos’s grip tightened in surprise. Saitama bit out a curse, and stopped to lift and massage his stinging foot. He glared at the ground – at the pointed pebble he had trodden on – and froze.

Drops of red marked the path where he had stepped.

Slowly, Saitama swung his raised foot around to inspect the heel.

A bead of blood dribbled from a puncture mark in his skin, smeared about the dirty sole where he had rubbed it. Saitama stared hard at the wound, paralysed by disbelief. It _hurt_ – _he_ was hurt.

Somewhere distant, he heard Genos speak. The words bounced off him, ignored as Saitama began to suspect the meaning of his dream. Alarm rose within him, dread like a glacier at the sight of his own blood. He wriggled out of the blond’s grasp, balanced on his good foot and toes to face away from him, and filled his lungs to Shout at the sky.

“ _Yol!_ ”

Nothing happened.

Genos’s hands found his shoulders again as Saitama started to hyperventilate.

He could not Shout.

Akatosh had taken away his dragon blood.

He was _mortal_.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pRc0j_y1JmE)
> 
>  
> 
> Dovahzul (dragon language) translation:  
>  _Hi nis filok zu’u ulse_ \- "you cannot escape me forever"
> 
>  **Context notes** :  
> * **Glenmoril Coven** is home of the Glenmoril Witches, worshippers of Hircine. In the game, the **cure for lycanthropy** is to kill a Glenmoril Witch and take her head to Ysgramor’s Tomb, where a werewolf can force out their Wolf Spirit. I chose to use the alternate method given in the PC version’s [Moonlight Tales](http://www.nexusmods.com/skyrim/mods/35470/?) mod, because Ysgramor’s Tomb only unlocks during the Companions questline … and I didn’t want to write that.  
>  * The **Stormcloaks** are a faction who believe Skyrim should break away from the Empire. This is a cause of great civil and political unrest.  
>  * **Alduin** the World Eater is the game’s primary antagonist. The self-proclaimed “first-born of Akatosh”, Alduin feels it is his birthright to dominate the world with his dragons. It is prophesised that only a Dragonborn can defeat him.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	9. A Return to Your Roots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Content warnings_ : blood; serious injury

*

 

A rooster’s screech pierced the cool air over Rorikstead.

Mountain wind carried the trill of morning birds through the village, caressed tall grasses and the thick coats of penned cows. The settlers were already hard at work in the fields, hammering on broken walls or tanning leather at the rack. Saitama sat hunched on the bottom step of the inn, alone, eyes closed where the rustic breeze washed over him. He caught the voices of two young girls as they dashed by, their petty argument loud against the backdrop of farm animals.

For the fifth time in half as many minutes, he took a deep breath of country air to steady himself. A plate of food – bread and apples – lay on the step beside him, untouched. He was hungry, but could not eat. Just the thought of breakfast made him nauseous, guts tight, anxious and unsettled. A chicken wandered perilously close to his meal, but he did not move to shoo it off.

He did not even open his eyes. Doing so would prove that he was awake, prove the nightmarish situation _real_.

Everything was gone: his Voice, his invulnerability, his strength. He was human and he felt _weak_.

In the past, more than once, he had wondered what a ‘normal’ life would be like. He had wondered where he would be without his dragon blood, with a mortal soul. No grim fate hanging over him, no responsibilities, no endless queues of strangers all-too-ready to ask a favour. It seemed like an easy life, pleasant, and so he had pretended. He ignored his destiny, turned his back on the trust of the gods.

Was that why Akatosh took away his abilities? Because he had spent the last three years in denial, and done nothing to stop – or even _find_ – Alduin? Had Akatosh, the God of Time, finally lost patience with him?

Saitama buried his face in his palms. The thought of those squandered years made his insides churn. It was the Dragonborn’s duty to defeat Alduin, but for three years the World Eater had roamed unchallenged. How many towns had he and his dragons levelled in the time Saitama spent dodging fate? How many innocent people must they have killed while the only one who could stop them hid?

 It made him feel like less than nothing.

Dream or not, Alduin was right. He had failed.

The quiet _crunch_ of footfalls drew the Nord from his thoughts, but he refused to straighten up. He stayed hunched at the foot of the tavern steps, like a drunkard after a particularly cruel rejection from the local bard.

“Master.”

That deep voice draped around his shoulders like a mantle, soothed his glass-filled airways, loosened the knots in his stomach. Of course it was Genos. Who else would approach such a miserable-looking bald man outside an alehouse? With one last steadying exhale, Saitama dragged his hands down to look up at the blond.

The mage stood by the hanging sign outside the inn, concern on his handsome face. When Saitama met his gaze, the expression cleared. The worry remained, of course, though masked by something calm and relieved – as if he had expected to catch his mentor in tears.

For a moment, Saitama thought on this. He felt small and fragile and useless, yes, but not _sad_. Certainly not enough to cry.

A strange emotion gripped him at the realisation, and he frowned. Its name escaped him, familiar yet alien – something he had not felt in many years. While he tried to place the feeling, an oblivious Genos crossed his arms and leaned against the signpost.

“I spoke to Rorik,” said the blond, “the landowner here. It took a good few coins, but I was able to convince him to part with his horse.”

Distant, Saitama nodded. In truth, he had only heard half of Genos’s statement. The strange emotion demanded his focus, and grew with his attempts to name it. Loss? Relief? Both options made sense, but neither felt right. Anger? No … melancholy? It made his guts scrunch up again, brought back the nausea, and he licked his dry lips with difficulty.

“If we set out within the hour,” Genos went on, with a glance at the murky sky, “we should make it to the Throat of the World by nightfall.”

At the thought of travel, the strange feeling swelled to a peak. Saitama felt his airways fill with jagged shards again, the hairs on his forearms prickling. It made him sweat, all-encompassing, present in the clouds and the dirt and the blades of grass at his boots, like a thousand eyes all turned to him at once.

With a start, he recognised the emotion.

 _Fear_.

He sat bolt-upright, fingers like hooks of ice where he grasped his knees. Somewhere, he knew Genos was still talking – but the words made no sense, lost in the flurry of stabbing nerves and muscle twitches. He clenched his fists to keep from trembling, and swallowed hard.

Being powerless _frightened_ him.

Genos fell quiet, having finally noticed the Nord’s distress. The worry returned to his face full-force, somehow both guarded and open.

“Master?”

Saitama wiped his damp brow. “Genos, I’m–” he blurted out. A nervous laugh escaped him before he could catch it, quick and hollow, and he bit his lip. “I’m _scared_.”

The mage lowered the hand he had raised to point out their path toward the mountains. “Master….”

“There’s all sorts out there,” said Saitama. The words tumbled fast from his mouth, unstoppable. “Bandits and sabre cats and bears. I can’t … I’m not strong anymore. If we leave here and get into a fight, I can’t–”

Without concern for dirtying his clothes, the blond fell to his knees before him. He dropped to his teacher’s height to speak plainly – and Saitama hung his head, too ashamed to look at him.

“I will not leave your side,” said Genos. He did not falter, even when his mentor avoided his stare. “This situation is temporary. The Greybeards taught you all you know, so it stands to reason they will know a way to help you. But they cannot come to us – so we must go to them, to High Hrothgar.”

“But it’s so far away,” said Saitama, frantic. “I can’t call Kahodnir to fly there, or tame another dragon to ride. Oh … oh gods, Genos … what if we run into a dragon?”

Genos gripped him by the shoulders, and Saitama’s voice died in his throat. The blond shook his head, eyes bright with determination. “I will protect you,” he said, firm. “I will not allow anything to harm you, master.”

Saitama peered into those eerie eyes. They looked so different, the cool silver of the beastblood a stark contrast to his true amber. The colour reminded Saitama of Genos’s quest, of the reason they had stopped in Rorikstead in the first place, and he let his gaze fall to his boots.

“I’m sorry,” he said. At Genos’s squint, he glanced aside. The chicken from earlier had returned, drawn to his uneaten breakfast. Stiffly, Saitama tore a chunk from his bread and tossed it to the bird. “The timing. High Hrothgar, it’s … it’s a pretty big detour. Your cure–”

“–can wait.”

Startled, the Nord looked up.

Genos sank back on his heels, elbows on his knees with hands outstretched and limp. Sincerity shaped his expression, sympathy. He stared out over the cow pen, watched the cattle graze with a certain calmness to his posture.

“The one who needs curing right now is you,” he said. “I may not enjoy it, but I can live as I am a while. You were right: I do not have to become the wolf. I am still human. My condition is manageable.”

He looked to Saitama, steadfast.

“But _you_ are meant for greatness,” he pressed. “And for that, you need to be everything you are. The sooner you are whole again, the better.”

The two girls ran by, along the cobbled road at the foot of the slope on which the inn stood. Saitama watched them pass, glum. “I dunno,” he said. “Maybe my powers are gone for good. Maybe Akatosh took them because he realised he made a mistake when he chose me.”

“Or maybe,” said Genos, unflinching, “this is a test. Perhaps there is something that he wishes to teach you, or wants you to remember.”

Saitama blinked, deep in thought. Something Akatosh … wanted him to remember?

_Next prisoner to the block!_

He sat up. Genos moved with him, straightened his spine where he crouched. Saitama swiped at his forehead again, rubbed away leftover sweat from his moment of terror. He then pushed to his feet, shaky on a stomach filled only with nerves.

“You said you got us a horse?”

Genos rose. “It is tethered on the farm, at the edge of the village,” he said, and gestured across the humble settlement. When he faced Saitama again, his eyes had brightened. “You wish to head out?”

“Yeah,” said Saitama. He tried a smile, and shrugged. “I think you’re right. There’s somewhere I … something I have to do.”

He told Genos to go prepare the horse while he retrieved his belongings from their room. The mage seemed to dislike the idea of splitting up, but stalked off without complaint. Saitama tossed the rest of his bread to the chicken and his apples to the cows, then dashed back inside the inn to grab his rucksack.

Less than a minute later, he met Genos outside a potato patch at one of Rorikstead’s two farms. As promised, a hardy palomino stood tied to the fence. It snorted and pawed the dirt, mane splayed where it bowed to graze at the ground. Saitama arrived in time to see the blond mount it, watched him settle into the saddle with practiced ease. The youth knew his way around a horse, he thought.

“You steer, kid,” he said, as he secured his backpack’s straps. “I’ve never ridden a horse before. Animals don’t really like me.”

Genos scooted forward, and unhooked their steed’s reins from the fence. “Understood,” he said. He slid his boots into the stirrups, and offered a hand to help Saitama aboard.

The Nord climbed up behind him, and instinctively grabbed around Genos’s waist when the horse shifted under his weight. The blond tensed but did not protest, though instead asked that Saitama hold onto him if he did not feel secure. Genos then urged the stallion into an easy trot, along the cobbled path and out of Rorikstead.

Saitama held on tight. For many reasons, some unrelated to his anxiety, he was glad of Genos’s company.

They rode east, between crumbled stone walls and lush foliage. The Throat of the World towered in the distance, pale and foggy. Saitama told the mage to leave the road, and instead make a beeline for the mountain over the undulating ground and thick grasses. The clatter of hooves drowned out the last of the cricket chirps, a steady rhythm over birdsong and fresh winds. They overtook foxes and elk, stone monuments and clouds of butterflies, passed between a collapsed building to the right and a god’s shrine to the left.

Saitama’s nerves peaked when a group of lumbering mammoths and their massive shepherd emerged over the hills. He had never noticed just how _big_ such creatures were before. Genos steered around them to avoid a fight; mammoths were peaceful enough, but giants would attack anything that got too close to the herd. The travellers’ steed easily outpaced a fearless sabre cat, by a misty brook near Fort Greymoor, and on to a rock road that cleaved the scrubland toward Whiterun.

The great walled city scrolled by on the left, Dragonsreach wreathed in low cloud. Genos followed the road alongside the stream that encircled the city, eastward to a meadery where the river split north and south. He slowed their steed to a stop at the fork, between bridges, and peered up at the Throat of the World ahead.

The mountain’s height was truly impressive, its peak swallowed by the murky sky. A touch intimidated, he glanced back to Saitama for directions.

“Follow the water south,” he told the blond, eyes on the clouds. “Upstream, past Riverwood. We’ll need to circle around to the east side. There’s a village there, Ivarstead, with a path that leads up to High Hrothgar. It’s the easiest way to climb.”

Genos nodded. He urged the horse back into motion, though at a slower trot this time. Saitama noticed the change of pace, but did not question it.

They rode in silence for a while, up a gentle slope, flecked by spray from roaring cascades in the river. Saitama saw salmon in the stream, buffeted by the rapids. The trees grew thicker, undergrowth vivid with purple flowers he could not name. He heard birds in the branches, smelled the vibrant wilds, saw shadows of hawks passing overhead. He felt warmth through Genos’s furs, arms still wrapped around the blond’s middle for balance, felt the jolts of the horse’s every backpack-rattling step.

Without prompt, as they passed a nobleman and his escort of mercenaries on the road, Genos spoke.

“Everything will be fine,” he said.

Disarmed, Saitama studied the back of the mage’s head. His pale hair was rumpled, like spun gold, windswept from outrunning the sabre cat. Saitama shuffled in the saddle; it felt very different to riding a dragon.

“Do not be concerned,” said Genos. He did not look back, focused on the reins in his hands. “This situation _is_ temporary. You will find your strength again, and soon. Until then, I will protect you, as you have protected me.”

Saitama almost smiled. “Funny,” he said, as they were both forced to duck under a low-hanging bough. Bugs buzzed by their ears, busy and insistent. “I’m normally the one reassuring you.”

At that, Genos twisted in the saddle. His expression was wry. “I must admit,” he said, over the beat of hooves on stone. “It is … refreshing, to see you vulnerable, master.”

The Nord batted away another pine branch. Its needles scraped his skin, a bizarre sensation. “You’re still calling me that?” he said. “I was never a good teacher, kid. _Now_ I’m even less a ‘master’.”

“I disagree,” said Genos, at once. He faced forward, steered them around a large boulder. “Everything you have taught me, Saitama, came from your soul. Your personality, your ideals – not your abilities. Your strength was what made me first wish to be your apprentice, but you are so much more than that. I think no less of you without it.”

Saitama fought the urge to rest his cheek on the space between Genos’s shoulder blades. His arms felt hot where they pressed into the blond’s furs, comfortably so, no need to stretch, as if their bodies were designed to fit together. He liked being this close to Genos, holding him. It felt strange to admit it, even to himself, to admit how attached he had grown to the mage in a matter of days.

Genos gave him confidence, eased his anxiety, made him believe that everything would be okay.         

Saitama indulged himself this moment of touch, of closeness, savoured his warmth and scent and calming presence. There was an undertone of guilt, however, worry that he had crossed a line again. Perhaps he was reading too deep into things, imagining what he wanted to see. What if Genos had only allowed the embrace because he thought Saitama would fall off the horse if he let go? Maybe Genos did not even realise.

_You are so much more than that. I think no less of you._

Saitama licked his lips. “Can we talk about last night?” he said.

Genos tugged the reins to follow a bend in the road, and drew a snort from their steed. “Much happened last night,” he said. “Could you be more specific?”

Saitama gathered his courage. “The part where I tried to kiss you,” he said, “and … the things I said.”

He felt the blond tense again in his grip. Genos failed to respond right away, and Saitama was so focused on his student’s body language that he did not notice their surroundings change. When the blond finally spoke, halfway across a stone bridge over the stream, his tone was blank.

“Is this Riverwood?”

Saitama gave a start, and looked ahead.

The stream had widened, water clear and calm, fed a creaky mill partway into the village. Foliage grew lush about the town, trees tall and green, the fresh air bright with life as children chased a dog between modest houses. Nords leaned on fences, watched the world go by, chatted with passing guards whose shields carried the symbol of Whiterun hold.

Saitama’s heart sank, though not to do with their location. “Yeah,” he said, “this is Riverwood.”

The palomino carried them on through the settlement, along the cobbled road and under a guards’ raised walkway. Saitama kept to himself, confidence shattered. It was obvious that Genos needed more time to weigh his feelings. The glumness returned, and he unhooked his arms from the blond’s waist to grasp the saddle instead.

They followed the road for some time, alongside the crystalline water, before either party spoke again. Unable to see the Throat of the World through the closer peaks on all sides, Genos twisted to ask if they were lost. Saitama assured him to stick to the path. Their course snaked through a beautiful stretch of woodland, rich with thistles and mountain flowers and birdsong. The undergrowth rippled with colour, air heavy in flavours of lavender and pine. The ground began to rise to a weaving slope, through ferns and bushes and dangling vines, and turned left at a trio of tall, carved stones. The sky brightened through tight-knit trees, sun climbing higher behind the clouds.

At a signpost at the roadside, Genos stopped the horse. Since Saitama seemed loath to talk, the mage paused to examine the markers. Three arms stretched from the central pole: one pointed back the way they had come, to Riverwood, another angled off toward Falkreath hold. The third bore a name that Genos did not recognise.

“Helgen?” he read aloud, confused.

“Follow the road,” Saitama said again, eyes elusive.

Traces of snow smeared the ground. Flora became sparse as they moved, terrain transforming from scrubland to tundra. Genos felt the temperature drop, gathered his furs tighter around himself. It occurred to him that, without his strength, Saitama might be more affected by the cold – but before he could offer his cloak, some kind of structure appeared over the hill ahead.

It looked like a fort, tall walls of stone and wood, burned black and lifeless. Genos urged their steed on, up the slope, toward a wide gate in the wall. He heard a shift of cloth as they neared, and was surprised to watch Saitama slide down from the horse. Genos tugged on the reins, allowed Saitama to stride out in front and pick the gate’s lock. The Nord shoved one side wide with a grunt, and led the way in.

They were greeted by the sight of an abandoned village, charred and ruined, a ghost of a town fenced-in by broken barricades and rocks. It looked as though a dozen giants had rampaged through: not a single building stood intact, structures collapsed and smashed, wooden beams and shards of houses spilled over the scorched ground. Genos smelled ash, blood – old and faint, but there. Fallen walkways crossed the snowy earth, buried by soot and ice and splinters. Fire had claimed everything a long time ago, the settlement destroyed beyond repair.

Genos pulled the reins tight, kept the horse from its nervous shifting. The air felt _wrong_ here, thick with echoes of the dead. He looked down to Saitama, to where the Nord stood with slack shoulders and his back turned, and swallowed hard.

“What is this place?” said Genos.

Saitama cast him a sidelong glance, features vacant and dark. He then drew in a deep breath, and started forward. “Helgen,” he said, “where it all began.”

On foot, he led Genos and his mount through the ravaged settlement. There was an emptiness to his expression, to his posture, that Genos had not seen there before – something bleak and wounded and quiet with anger. He waited for his teacher to gather his courage, to explain, stilled his questions with ease born of concern.

Saitama came to a sudden halt, before a block of wood on the ground. A half-circle had been cut away from one of its edges, stained brownish red beneath the ash.

“You’ve heard of the Stormcloaks?” he said.

Genos nodded from atop the horse. “The rebels, correct?” he said. “They oppose the Empire in the civil war, believing Skyrim should be independent and free.”

Saitama bowed his head, eyes fixed on the bloody block. “I met their leader, Ulfric, once,” he said. “It was before I knew who I was. I was thinking about leaving Skyrim … explore the world, y’know? Turned out, Imperials had set an ambush for Ulfric at the border. I got caught up in it. They thought I was a Stormcloak, too, and captured me along with him and a few others.

“They brought us here, to be executed,” he went on. He shook his head at Genos’s shocked splutter, but did not look at him. “It was my turn. I was here, on my knees, the headsman over me. Then … Alduin showed up.”

Genos swallowed his disgust. “Alduin…?”

Saitama gave a grim smile. “The ‘World Eater’,” he said. “A dragon, the worst one you’ll ever find.”

The mage frowned. “And this dragon … rescued you?”

“In a way,” Saitama shrugged. He turned on his heel to face Genos, arms folded tight across his chest. “He meant to kill me. The Dragonborn’s the only one who can kill _him_ , see? But when he attacked Helgen, it caused so much chaos, I escaped. If he’d done nothing, I’d have had my head chopped off and he’d be free to do whatever. Funny how things work out.”

Genos stroked the horse’s mane to keep it calm. He said nothing, bit back a comment on how almost being beheaded was not ‘funny’ at all.

Saitama gave the chopping block a light kick, hands clenched around the straps of his rucksack. “I think you were right,” he said. “I needed to remember this. I’d forgotten Helgen. So many people died here – have died _since_ , while I’ve been dancing around my responsibilities.”

“You had your reasons,” said Genos, evenly.

Saitama glowered at him. “This was _three years ago_ , Genos,” he said. “It’s been three whole years, and I … I’ve done nothing to stop Alduin. I’ve let the dragons run wild. No wonder Akatosh is mad at me. I was given these powers to save the world, and I wasted them. I’m the worst Dragonborn ever.”

Genos clenched his jaw, and slid down from the horse. He kept hold of its reins, strode closer to Saitama to stand square across from him. “But you _know_ , now,” he said. “You are wiser for your experiences. You have learned to appreciate your abilities, more than you did before – and so will use them appropriately, when you get them back.”

Something squeezed Saitama’s windpipe. “Do I … deserve a second chance…?”

A crow burst from the trees, unheeded. Genos reached out, hesitated, and laid his metal hand atop his teacher’s crossed forearms. “I did not,” he said, “but the gods gave one to me anyway. They led me to _you_ , who has changed my life for the better. If the Divines can forgive me for what I have done, they can forgive you as well.”

Saitama glanced up to meet his eyes. Genos neither flinched nor looked away, but nodded once. Saitama sighed. From that pretty mouth, he could almost believe the words. Almost.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I’ve seen what I needed to.”

He led the mage to a second gate on the east wall. While he picked the lock, Genos climbed back onto the horse. Saitama mounted the stallion behind him, as before, feeling lost and emotionally drained. The blond willed their steed into motion, through the gate, left at a split in the road and on through the chilly tundra.

Another signpost stood farther down the roadside. The mage paused to inspect it, and saw Ivarstead marked on one of the arms. He steered onto the indicated trail, through a rocky ravine and spindly trees. A rabbit raced across their path, disappeared into the brush.

“I’m glad you’re here,” the Nord muttered, so quiet that it was clear he had not meant for Genos to hear. Genos’s wolfish hearing caught the statement anyway, and he hid the smallest of sad smiles.

He dared not imagine how awful Saitama must have felt, to admit such a thing aloud. It warmed the youth to the core, to know that this phenomenal man depended on him.

Ahead, two toppled carts blocked the road. Genos slowed their steed in mystification, frowned at the horses still roped to the fallen carriages. Those beasts lay dead on the icy ground – as did the Khajiit merchants who had rode in the coaches. He sniffed the air, caught the scent of fresh flowers and bracken despite the withered plant life on the path. He felt Saitama lean around him to study the broken carts, and sensed eyes on their skin.

Saitama hummed. “We should go another–”

Genos shushed him, ears strained. Just above the howling winds and crow calls, he heard something out-of-place. “Bees?” he muttered.

Saitama’s eyes went wide. “Spriggans.”

Before the mage could ask what a spriggan was, something hard slammed into his side.

The blow knocked both travellers off the palomino, and they landed in a tangled heap on the ground. The horse reared up with a startled neigh, and Genos scrambled to avoid its hooves. He saw a flash of green, movement in the snow – _wrong_ , somehow, an ethereal sheen in the air, as if their opponent were invisible.

To the sound of swarming insects, a woman made of twisted wood and light materialised before him – and Genos learned exactly what a spriggan was.

He unleashed a fireball before the creature could lay a single twig on him. She staggered back, bark aflame. She seemed to teleport away, the drone deafening, allowed Genos to scramble upright and drag Saitama with him. Genos planted himself between her and the Nord, though faltered when he heard a second foe hum to life from behind.

In the corner of his eye, while the horse ran in fear, he saw Saitama draw the axe from its slot in his rucksack. The Nord’s knuckles were white, back pressed flush to Genos’s and shaking hard.

“I know _so_ many Shouts that could help us right now,” he bit out.

With gritted teeth, Genos conjured a ball of flame in each palm. “I will deal with them,” he said. “Master, ensure that the horse does not escape.”

He launched into movement before Saitama could answer.

He did his best to keep both spriggans’ attentions, ran wide circles around one while casting fire at the other. They swung for him with massive, hooked hands – but were unable to land a hit, distracted while Saitama raced after the horse. Genos kept an eye on him, saw when Saitama snagged the reins down the road and yanked the beast to a halt. With that worry off his mind, Genos focused fully on the battle.

The spriggans were fast, fierce. They did not seem sentient, either spirits or constructs powered by magic, with faces like masks and neither flesh nor skin. While he did not understand how they worked, Genos knew what they were made of: trees. Trees burned, and so did spriggans.

The first creature went down quickly, a charred husk on the ground in the wake of his flames. The second evaded him, more agile than the first, swift enough to summon a swarm of wasps. Genos incinerated the cloud before it could sting him, and sprang off the ravine wall for extra speed to get behind her.

As he set the second spriggan alight, Genos overheard a sudden yell.

He turned his head, alarm high in his throat. He saw their horse on its hind legs, kicking at a third spriggan he had missed in the frenzy. This creature was different, larger, orange where the others glowed green. The horn-like twigs on its head grew thicker and more numerous, like a crown of antlers, its whole body sharp and deadly.

He saw it swing one arm in an almost careless backhand, watched it catch Saitama hard in the face and knock him down. His axe clattered to the rocky earth, no pained cry in the air. He did not get up.

When the smell of blood hit Genos’s nostrils, he forgot all about magic.

He lurched without thought, without even planning to, driven at a sprint across the snow by the urge – the _obligation_ – to protect his master. He did not remember shifting into beast form – but the next thing he knew, his claws were buried deep in the spriggan and he was ripping her apart. Her left arm gave almost at once, severed in a great splintering of wood, and she let out an unearthly shriek. He tore off her other arm next, then a leg, and she crumpled in a flurry of dead leaves. He towered over the creature, watched the orange glow fade from her body, and snapped his mouth shut when he recognised the furious snarl in his ears as his own.

He forced himself back into human form, winded and reeling, and scrambled across the dirt to where Saitama lay, facedown and still. Genos could not think for the smell of his blood, the vivid sight of it in the pristine snow. He rolled the Nord onto his back, senses heightened by the way his limp limbs dragged with the movement.

Saitama was breathing. This was good. He was also bleeding, from three long scratches on his cheek – courtesy of the spriggan’s backhand swipe. With bated breath, and ice in his throat, Genos focused Magicka in his hand, and pressed the palm to Saitama’s wounded face. Slowly, the cuts closed up; they knitted together, fixed at the mage’s touch, only smudges of red left behind.

Still he did not wake, and Genos began to panic.

There were more injuries, not so obvious, slashes in his leathers that cut through to the flesh beneath. The spriggan must have attacked him long before Genos first noticed, and landed multiple strikes before she knocked him out. The mage did what he could, but a particularly bad gash in his side refused to mend. The wound ran so deep that Genos at first could see straight to the bone, muscle ravaged and open even after the attempt to heal him.

There was so much blood – on Saitama, on the ground, on Genos’s hands. He cursed his lack of skill with Restoration magic, and tried to calm down enough to think out the best course of action. Should he bandage the wound? Carry him back to Riverwood for help? Keep trying with magic? There was so much blood.

_There was so much blood._

With a choked breath, Genos gathered Saitama to his chest. He did not know what to do. Saitama would know. The Nord hung limp in his arms, unconscious, throat bared where his head tipped back. Genos pressed one side of his face to it, hugged him hard, clung to the slow, quiet _thud_ of life in his neck.

Fear flashed through him, stark and cold. Saitama was going to leave him. He would be alone again. They would _both_ be alone again.

“Divines, please …” he begged of the empty air, and squeezed his eyes shut tight. “Please … do not take him from me–”

 _I cannot lose him as well_.

Something moved against Genos’s cheek, and he pulled away in time to watch Saitama gasp. The noise came sharp, ragged, and his body jerked back to consciousness, hands flying to his injured side. Genos quickly laid him flat, white-faced and anxious. Saitama then let out a string of the filthiest curses the mage had ever heard, hissing through his teeth, and he cracked open his eyes.

“Ow, ow, oh _gods_ ….”

Relief flooded Genos with such force that he almost buckled where he knelt. He doubled over his teacher, panting hard and fast, so close that he felt his fringe brush the Nord’s forehead. He felt Saitama’s strained breaths on his face, but shuffled back to try again to heal the wound. Saitama yelped and twisted under his touch, disoriented from blacking out.

After a moment, his agonised sounds morphed into a weak laugh. “Ah … what … what was that word you used?” he said. He rested one forearm over his eyes in exhaustion, the other hand across his chest with fist balled. “‘Refreshing’?”

With the wound slightly less serious than before, Genos wiped his damp brow. Saitama moved his arm just enough to squint at him, expression tight and pained but warm with gratitude.

“I’d forgot what this was like …” he managed, and rolled his head aside. “Gods, it’s _awful_. I can _feel_. Ha, I love it.”

Genos fixed him with a light scowl. “You are delirious,” he said. He helped Saitama sit up and brushed snow from his shoulders, then fished through his crushed rucksack for something clean to use as a bandage. “Try not to move. This is as much as my magic can heal you. We will need to stop in Ivarstead for help, perhaps spend the night to let you recover.”

Saitama gave him a feeble shove. “Don’t be dramatic,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Anger stabbed at Genos’s insides. With jerky movements, he pulled a long roll of clean cloth from the pack and began to bandage the wound. He pressed the dressing against the gash with more force than was necessary, drawing another hiss from Saitama.

“You are not fine,” said the mage, curt. He shook his head. “Curse my pride … if I were better at Restoration magic … you almost–”

Saitama grabbed his wrist, stilled him. Genos glanced into his stern eyes before he could stop himself, and caved. There was urgency in his grip, reassurance.

“But I didn’t,” said Saitama, voice low. “I’m – I _will be_ fine. Don’t blame yourself for every little thing. You’re good at that.”

Drained, but grateful for his teacher’s words, Genos bowed his head. Saitama did not move, perhaps _could_ not from pain, and, in result, their foreheads touched.

Rather than pull away, Genos sank into the contact with eyes closed. The panic had left him feeling raw, vulnerable and shaky, but the warmth of the Nord’s skin through his hair soothed the ache.

He had been so scared, terrified by the thought of losing Saitama.

They stayed that way for a while, until the first flecks of fresh snow began to fall around them. Genos finished dressing Saitama’s wound, then helped him upright and over to where their horse had fled a short ways down the road. He helped Saitama into the saddle, but himself walked to lead the stallion on foot. His spoken reason for this was that he could react faster on the ground, defend his teacher better, should they be ambushed.

In truth: he feared that if he sat in front and Saitama held onto his waist again, he would want the Nord to never let him go.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cT-HeYARWJw)
> 
> **Context notes** :  
> * **Spriggans** are creatures made up of wood and magical energy. They protect Skyrim’s natural sanctuaries – untouched glades, ponds, and such. **Spriggan Matrons** are more powerful versions of the standard Spriggan, able to restore their own health multiple times. 
> 
> [Tumblr](http://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	10. The Throat of the World

*

 

“Master, please refrain from touching it.”

“It just feels so _strange_ ,” said Saitama, fingers dug through the rips in his leathers to poke at the bandages beneath. “Did you never do that sort of thing as a kid? Pick at scabs, and stuff? It’s weirdly satisfying.”

Genos tossed him a frown, mismatched hands busy untying their horse from the fence outside Vilemyr Inn.

Ivarstead was a humble village, famed only for its place at the foot of the tallest peak in Tamriel. The sun burned high overhead, masked by pregnant clouds. Cicadas and mountain birds warbled above the call of the winds, at odds with the screech of sawed wood from the nearby lumber mill. A carpet of autumn-coloured leaves veiled the ground, dry and crisp under the boots of patrolling guards and farmhands.

He would never admit it aloud, but Saitama was glad Genos had talked him into resting here last night. The stay had given him chance to heal a little, time to recover from the shock of yesterday’s spriggan attack – and subsequent injury.

It had also introduced him to a new side of _Genos_.

The blond had been beside himself, fussy and strict, like a new mother. He checked Saitama’s wounds at every opportunity, now unafraid to make physical contact.

The circumstances could have been better, but Saitama found he rather liked having Genos’s careful hands on his skin.

The horse flicked its tail with a snort, as if disgruntled to have been tethered in place for so long. Genos gave the creature a light pat on the neck, oblivious to his mentor’s fond stare. He looked unkempt; Saitama doubted the kid had gotten one wink of sleep in his worry. That made two restless nights in a row now. How he had yet to fall over, the Nord would never know.

With a sigh, Saitama looked to the west.

The Throat of the World towered over the village, immense and imposing, summit crowned by clouds. Its sheer height filled him with dread, unease. Still, there was no point in doubting – in wondering if this journey had been in vain, should the Greybeards not know how to help him. The Nord gave his bandages one final rub, and – with some difficulty – clambered onto their horse. Genos also mounted the stallion, settled in front of him on the saddle, and took up its reins.

“Not far now, master,” he said. Saitama hooked both arms around his student’s waist for balance, and nodded.

At an easy trot, they rode down past the lumber mill and alongside the farm. A father and adult daughter worked to rake soil around the cabbages; just like his last trip through Ivarstead, Saitama overheard the old man scold his daughter for talking with travellers. Chickens wandered about the path, and Genos steered carefully to avoid them. When they came to a bridge that spanned the river at the edge of town, Genos slowed their steed to a walk.

An elf leaned against the low wall of the bridge, chatting to a Nord man with a knapsack. The two strangers fell silent at the clatter of hooves, then straightened up and made to stroll back into town. Genos stopped the horse altogether to let them pass, cautious on the narrow bridge, but glanced back when Saitama tapped his shoulder.

“Klimmek,” Saitama called down to his fellow Nord.

The stranger – Klimmek – paused in his tracks, heavy brow furrowed while the elf walked on without him. A spark of recognition then lanced across the man’s weathered face, and he brightened at the sight of Saitama.

“By the Nine,” he said. He let out a laugh, and approached the mounted travellers with fists on his hips. His attention was fixed on Saitama, features warm. “Thought you’d forgotten about us. You look rough. How long’s it been?”

Saitama shrugged, awkward in his perch behind Genos, while their horse pawed the dirt. “I’ve … been busy.”

The blond glanced between the two Nords, guarded. Who was this man, he thought, to speak on such casual terms with his master? Before he could interrogate the stranger, Klimmek nodded to him pleasantly.

“Good to meet you,” he said. He returned his gaze to Saitama, and folded his arms where he stood in the weeds. “On your way to visit the Greybeards, I’m guessing?”

Saitama shifted in the saddle. “Yeah,” he said. He gestured to the knapsack on Klimmek’s shoulder. “Making a delivery?”

“About to,” said the older Nord. An odd, meek look overcame his face. “Say … I don’t suppose you’d be willing to save me the trip? My legs aren’t what they used to be. Climbing the Seven Thousand Steps to High Hrothgar takes its toll.”

Genos scowled at the presumptuous man. He readied the horse’s reins, prepared to ride away the instant Saitama shot down the request.

As such, he was taken aback when his teacher offered a hand.

Klimmek passed his knapsack up to Saitama, who slung it over his shoulder to join his own larger pack. Klimmek beamed. “Thanks,” he said. “Just leave the bag in the offering chest at the top of the Steps, like usual.”

Saitama nodded once. “Sure.”

With a wave, his fellow Nord set off to return to Ivarstead. “Be careful up there.”

Confused by Saitama’s generosity, Genos urged the horse into motion.

They crossed the bridge over the rushing stream, to where an arc of uneven stone steps protruded from the slope at the foot of the mountain. The path led upward, carved into the hillside, with what looked like a shrine or headstone nestled in the rocks at the first bend. A fox darted across the path, disappeared into the scrub. Saitama told Genos to stop the horse again while he untangled the straps on his shoulders, and the palomino ducked to graze at the hoarfrost.

“Master,” said the mage, puzzled while he waited, “who was that man?”

Behind him, Saitama made a noise of realisation. “Ah, that’s Klimmek,” he said, while he wrestled with the bags. “He lives here. Nice guy. Likes to fish.”

Genos twisted in place to look at his teacher, brow creased. “How do you know him?”

Saitama thought a moment, eyes on a rabbit farther up the slope. “When I trained with the Greybeards,” he said, “sometimes I’d head down to the town for a change of scenery. The monastery gets pretty boring, y’know? Anyway … every now and then, I’d take supplies from Klimmek back up to High Hrothgar. The Greybeards don’t get out much.”

With the straps straightened out, Saitama gave the go-ahead and Genos whipped the reins. They began to climb in earnest, old snow on the higher ground and trees, followed the winding, treacherous path in the white mountainside.

Another pilgrim, an archer, sat before a second wayshrine at a bend in the Steps. He seemed at peace, deep in reflection. When Genos asked his teacher about the wayshrines, Saitama explained: these ten carved tablets along the path to High Hrothgar were engraved with the history of the Voice.

He said that dragons once dominated the world, long before the birth of men and mer. When mortals emerged, the dragons – led by Alduin – ruled over them as god-kings. The goddess Kynareth took pity on mankind, and convinced one of the dragons to betray Alduin. This dragon had told the ancient Nords of the Thu’um, taught them to Shout as a means to fight Alduin. But, Saitama said, even with the Thu’um, they were unable to kill the World Eater. Only a Dragonborn – like Saitama – could do such a thing. Instead, the Nords of old had used the power of an Elder Scroll to send Alduin away. They cast him forward in time, where he had reappeared three years ago and attacked Helgen.

Genos absorbed the tale with an open mind, intrigued despite the condensed retelling.

Snow began to fall on their ascent, a light dusting that soon devolved into a blizzard. The edge of the path fell sharply away, no guardrail or fence, dangerous drops over jagged rocks. Frigid winds bit at the travellers’ exposed skin, and Saitama – newly sensitive to the temperature, even with his Nordic blood – pressed against Genos’s back for warmth. The zephyrs moaned in his ears, stabbed through the holes in his leathers like claws of ice.

“Wish I’d thought to ride a horse last time,” he muttered.

Frost trolls roamed the Seven Thousand Steps. Genos made short work of them, with his fire magic and conjured atronachs, and coaxed their steed to outrun those he lacked the patience or Magicka to deal with. Through the flurry, a spectacular view stretched for miles: the Sea of Ghosts glistened far in the distance, hazy blue, beyond rugged mountains and valleys of pine trees. The path led up and down, wrapped serpentine around the mountain, between stout stacks of stones and flapping banners. They passed snowberry bushes and bears, no end in sight, saw more pilgrims perched by wayshrines at the roadside.

Even on horseback, the journey to High Hrothgar seemed longer than Saitama remembered.

Apprehension built in his chest on the climb, sweat on his brow despite the chill. What if the Greybeards could not – or _would_ not – help him? He clung to Genos’s furs, to the personification of his hope. What if there was no way to get his Voice back?

He paled at the thought.

Genos had assured him that he was not _nothing_ without his powers. All the same … he felt inadequate. He felt fragile, insignificant. Losing his abilities had made him realise how much he relied upon them, yes – but it had also shown him how harsh and unforgiving the world could be for normal people. Even people like Genos, strong and adapted, struggled to survive, fought for their lives on a daily basis.

The wilderness, though beautiful, was dangerous. It seethed with bandits and criminals and ferocious beasts whose only thought was food, and dragons were the worst of all. They slaughtered and terrorised, and – for three years – Saitama had let them fly free, unchallenged.

No more.

He was Dragonborn. This was the destiny chosen for him, laid out by the gods, and he had been a fool to resist it. He saw this now. He needed his Voice: it was the Dragonborn’s duty to protect those who could not protect themselves.

More than that, this new perspective made him recognise that he _liked_ his strength. It reminded him why he had chosen to train with the Greybeards, instead of going his own way, reminded him how much he used to enjoy the thrill of battle. He remembered how alive he used to feel when practicing a new Shout, the warmth inside at the smiles of passersby he helped on the road.

He had grown jaded with his power, indifferent, and only then did people ridicule him. He had estranged himself, tricked himself into thinking he did not care. Things would be different now: he would not fall into the same pattern of self-doubt again.

But … if Akatosh refused him a second chance, if his Voice was gone for good….

The thought squeezed his innards, robbed him of breath. He wondered if this was how Genos had felt, when his purpose in life – his shot at revenge – had been ripped away from him, denied by cruel fate.

 _Genos_.

Genos had believed in him from the start. He was worth fighting for.

At long last, around a rocky outcrop, High Hrothgar came into view.

The two moons, faint and pale in the late morning sky, hung low over the monastery. Harsh winds carried trails of powder up the last stint of steps ahead, biting and bitter. Hawks screeched through the whiteout, their cries and the howls of wolves echoing about the grey walls and ice. To the right, a statue of Talos – a past Dragonborn – guarded the ninth wayshrine. The tenth and final tablet stood beside the raised stairway to the monastery, a stairway that split in two around a towering stone pillar.

Genos tugged their horse to a halt, and hopped down with a _crunch_ of snow. He helped Saitama likewise dismount, and watched the Nord robotically cross to the chest at the foot of the pillar. Potions and flowers and sacks of food sat gathered around the trunk; Saitama shrugged off Klimmek’s knapsack and opened the chest, and left the supplies inside.

While Saitama straightened the straps of his own rucksack, which he refused to let Genos carry despite his injury, the mage strolled ahead to read the inscription on the final tablet.

 

_The Voice is worship_

_Follow the Inner path_

_Speak only in True Need_

 

A shiver rattled the blond’s spine, and he drew his furs tighter. He smelled the sky, open and cold, smelled fire from candles set near the chest, and the all-encompassing stench of damp rocks. He smelled life, too, a scant handful of people inside the monastery. The wet scent of snow veiled all, stung his sensitive nose, fresh and brisk.

With palpable nerves, Saitama led his student up the curved stairway to the doors of High Hrothgar. He stopped short of the entrance, frowned hard at the engraved metalwork. Genos followed his gaze, studied the stylised dragon’s head etched into the gate. He could almost taste Saitama’s discomfort.

“Do you need anything?” said the mage.

He saw a muscle twitch in his teacher’s jaw, before Saitama shook his head. “Just my strength back,” he said, and shoved the heavy door wide. Without delay, Genos followed him into the monastery.

The crackle of fire drowned the howls of the storm, smothered sharp draughts that stole their way inside. Almost everything within the building was forged of stone, leeching heat from the air. Yellowish banners, marked with words in the dragon tongue, fluttered from the high ceiling, elaborate murals drawn into the walls. Pots and jugs cluttered benches and raised bowls of flame, the main hall half-lit and still.

An old man knelt on the floor, at the corner of a tiled square in the centre of the chamber. Clad in grey-blue robes, with a short silver beard and both legs tucked beneath himself, he seemed deep in meditation. At the creak of the door and gust of snow, however, he glanced up. A soft smile shaped his battered face at the sight of Saitama, and he got slowly to his feet.

The Greybeard opened his mouth to speak – before his eyes snagged on Genos, and widened. Instead, lips sealed, he greeted the visitors by way of a bow.

Saitama bowed back, stiff from his injury. The Greybeard then turned and left, ambled away down one of the many corridors that lined the main hall. Saitama watched his departure, and glanced around.

“Arngeir?” he called.

The name echoed about the chamber, loud and unsettling. Genos revolved on the spot, took in the place where Saitama had learned mastery of his incredible power. It was less lavish than he expected, quieter, almost eerie. The mage wondered why the Greybeard had refused to speak in front of him – wondered if he himself, ungifted with the Voice, was even allowed to be here.

A second elderly man emerged from a passage at the side of the hall. Dressed in the same hooded robes as the first, this Nord’s beard was tied in a knot below his chin. His eyes gleamed bright, face lined and grizzled. He approached at a quick shuffle, and stopped before Saitama to dip his head.

“Sky above, Voice within,” he said, arms spread. His words rang clear, gentle but firm with controlled power. He straightened up, and linked both hands within his long sleeves. “It is good to see you, Dragonborn. How may we be of service?”

Saitama opened his mouth, but faltered. “I, uh …” he said, face hotter than the candles around him. The words stuck in his throat, filled him with shame. “I don’t … I can’t….”

He had not considered how to explain his problem.

The Greybeard, Arngeir, frowned at him. The flush of embarrassment crept farther up Saitama’s scalp, vivid in the half-light. When the colour reached his ears, Genos stepped in.

“My master is in dire need of your assistance,” said the mage, low and urgent. Arngeir cast him a polite yet curious look. “He has lost his abilities. You must help him retrieve them.”

A jolt of shock swept across the old man’s face. Unnerved, he looked to Saitama. “Is this true?”

The Nord swallowed hard. “I saw Akatosh in a nightmare,” he said, and shuffled his boots on the bare floor. “When I woke up, I … I couldn’t Shout. I bleed easy. I’m _mortal_.”

Arngeir stared at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed. A draught whipped at the banners overhead, at Genos’s hair, gathered up stray embers from the sconces. The wizened man raised a hand to his chin, and stroked his beard in thought.

“If Akatosh himself visited you,” he said, “and robbed you of your Voice, I fear there is little we can do. It is not man’s place to meddle with the will of the gods.”

“But the gods are free to meddle with _us_?” Genos shot. Saitama calmed him with a hand on his shoulder, nostrils flared.

Arngeir shook his head, the motion slow and weary. “In times of strife,” he said, “the Divines test us all. I still sense power in you, Dragonborn, an echo of what you were. Your power is that of a _dovah_ , everlasting, unable to be destroyed – even by Akatosh. It would seem that he has not stripped you of your Thu’um, but merely … muffled it.”

Saitama licked his chapped lips. “Can you _un_ -muffle it?”

Arngeir’s face fell. “You have lost sight of your inner self,” he said, tone grave. “Your heart is clouded, your mind at war. This is not a battle that others can fight for you. Even so … it is not ours to judge if you are worthy of the dragon blood. That honour belongs to Akatosh.”

Genos bit back a retort. This was no time to speak in riddles.

Arngeir lowered his hand. “But … perhaps Paarthurnax can guide you.”

Saitama glanced up. Genos, meanwhile, scowled. “Paarthurnax?” said the mage.

“Our grandmaster,” said Arngeir, sagely, “the leader of the Greybeards. He lives in seclusion atop the mountain, wise in all things. If any can help the Dragonborn find his Tongue again, it is him.”

Curious, Genos looked to his teacher. Saitama stood with fists clenched tight, tense. There was no relief or joy to his expression, but instead a sense of dark acceptance – something glum, resigned. The mage thought this odd: Arngeir had woven them a thread of hope. Saitama should have leaped on it, he thought, not looked like a man at the cusp of despair.

“I can’t Shout,” said Saitama, apprehensive. “I can’t clear the blizzard. How d’you expect me to make it to the peak to see Paarthurnax, in this weather? I’ll freeze solid.”

Genos stepped in front of him, between his mentor and the old man, out-of-place in the tranquil monastery. “I will not allow that to happen,” he said. Saitama met his stare, surprised by the determination in it. “No blizzard is a match for my flames, master. I will accompany you, and my magic will keep us warm.”

Saitama’s jaw rippled. “You don’t understand,” he said. The vulnerability in his face then hardened, and he pulled away. “It’s not just the snow we rode up in. There’s magic barriers higher in the mountain, winds colder than anything you can imagine. They’ll drain your strength in minutes. I’m still kinda resistant to it, as a Nord, but you … Genos, you could die.”

The mage did not waver. “I am not afraid,” he said, silver eyes agleam in the firelight. “I have faith in my Destruction magic. If speaking with this Paarthurnax will restore your abilities, then I will do all I can to ensure that you reach him. I see no other way.”

Saitama dropped his gaze. Genos was naught if not stubborn.

At the fringe of their conversation, Arngeir bowed his head. “One cannot hope to fathom the plan of Akatosh,” he said, “but if you prove your resolve, Dragonborn, he will surely not let you perish here. He has far greater plans for you.”

While Genos turned to face Arngeir, Saitama forced a deep breath.

The Greybeards would not Shout the sky clear for him, he knew: it was not their Way to intrude in others’ problems. And even if he waited for the blizzard to pass, the magical barriers on the path to the peak would remain. They never fell, could only be banished by a Shout. The kid was right, he thought, there were no other options. Huddling around Genos’s conjured fire was the best – and only – choice they had.

“Okay,” he said. Irritable, he tugged on Genos’s furs to demand his attention. The blond met his grimace with wide eyes. “But if you start feeling weak, or whatever, I want you to head straight back here and warm up. Understand?”

“I do, master.”

In calm silence, Arngeir led them across the hall. They passed urns of flowers, yellow plants by the name of Dragon’s Tongue, and scaled a short set of stairs to the doors at the rear of the chamber. The Greybeard bowed one final time, and saw the travellers out into High Hrothgar’s courtyard.

“Sky guard you.”

The snowstorm raged on, bitter and ruthless, darkened the heavens to premature dusk. Swirls of white whipped in flurries around them, stung their cheeks and Saitama’s bare arms. Genos brought up a hand, and conjured as large a fire as his metal palm could hold. The flames curled and danced between his off-gold fingers, buffeted by the storm, sparks stolen by the breeze.

Saitama kept close, felt its soft heat nudge at him. He prayed it would be enough for the trial ahead.

Over another stairway, past a third Greybeard knelt at a small bonfire, an open gateway led farther up the mountainside. The stone arch bore familiar Nordic carvings, square and grand. Through its maw, like a captive cloud or mist made solid, Genos saw a wall of strange, opaque wind.

He sensed great magic from it, something unfamiliar and indomitable. This was one of the barriers Saitama had spoken of.

Their footfalls crunched and creaked, lost in the roar of the blizzard. Saitama hooked an arm through Genos’s to keep them together in the whiteout. As they climbed the steps toward the ominous gateway, and the temperature plummeted, the Nord let out a sigh.

“This is _my_ trial,” he said. “I won’t blame you for turning back.”

Genos fed more magic into his handful of fire, their only solace from the storm. “My place is at your side.”

With that pledge, they stepped through the gateway and into the wall of vicious fog.

 _Agony_.

Bitter cold devoured the travellers whole, piercing and raw. It hurt, it _hurt_. Sharp, searing pain ripped through their clothes, and Genos ducked into himself with a yelp. The air held no moisture, burned his lungs, like swallowing molten lead and razor blades. Saitama felt it too, to a lesser extent but still _too much_. His fingers stung and numbed, exposed head and arms aflame. The hairs of his eyebrows and nostrils froze in seconds, and all he could think of was how much it hurt to breathe.

He crowded Genos, both to shield him from the glacial wind and to steal heat from his fire. Sounds rang warped, brittle, their gasps shrill and panicked as they stumbled and hurried through the fog.

On the other side, they stopped to curse and catch their breath. Genos spilled his flames from one hand to both, fanned them as large and hot as he could. He had never felt such biting, absurd, _awful_ cold. He peered up through frost-tipped eyelashes to check that Saitama was all right, and saw fear on his teacher’s blotchy red face.

The fear, Genos realised, was for _him_.

Even in this weakened state, Saitama was more worried for Genos than he was about himself.

“Let’s k-keep moving,” the Nord bit out.

The path continued upward, coiled snakelike around the mountain toward its apex. They could scarcely see in the freezing fog, which thickened further at several points along the trail. Genos felt blind, the world swallowed beyond arm’s length. Sudden drops lurched through the mist, steep and deadly, drew gasps from the pilgrims each time they almost stepped off into empty air.

The journey was terrifying.

A bridge emerged ahead, wood and rope, stretched over a deep ravine in the rocks. It looked flimsy, handmade, no walls or guardrails, too narrow to tackle side-by-side. Saitama took Genos by the hand and led him across, single file, heart in his mouth at every creaky step. He dared not look down.

As soon as they stepped onto solid rock again, an ice wraith erupted from the snow.

The creature attacked, enraged by their presence, swift and nimble and nigh impossible to see in the whiteout. Wary of wasting Magicka, Genos conjured an atronach to fight it. The fiery Daedra stayed with them after the defeated wraith burst into powder, helped them fend off a frost troll farther up the path.

Saitama concentrated on his feet, on putting one in front of the other. Walking was hard work. He could not hear above the chatter of his teeth; he wanted to fall to his knees, to scream, to give in to the chill in his bones. Left foot, right foot, left again. It was _so cold_ , gnawing at the bandaged gash in his side. He focused on the feel of Genos’s arm around his back, urging him on, forced his legs not to stop. Left foot, right foot. Eyes ahead.

They kept climbing, half-blind and shaky and breathless. The trail took an abrupt turn, the crumbled edge marked with another of those boulder piles. A ragged strip of cloth billowed from the mound, whipped in the wind. Saitama recognised it, and hope flickered in his chest.

“Almost there,” he said.

The path began to meander and twist, its incline so steep that his calves throbbed. The blizzard seemed to ease around them, still raging but not as fierce. Not as cold. They had survived the final barrier. He could see the end, the summit, open to the heavy sky. Saitama dug deep for one more surge of strength, tempted to crawl on all fours to make the last slope easier.

As the ground finally – mercifully – levelled out, two large bowls of fire rose into view over the apex.

The basins stood tall atop stone pillars, churned steam and smoke into the fog. Despite the altitude, the wind and its moans were muted here; he heard the flames before he saw them, the snaps loud and warm and welcome.

Halfway between the pillars and the travellers, ethereal and ghostly, an odd shimmer hung in the air. It looked like a heat haze, glistening, streaks of light as tall as a man stretched up toward the sky. Genos sensed strange power from it, an indescribable pull at the back of his mind.

When Saitama offered no explanation, drained from the hike, the mage then shifted his focus. He peered through the anomaly, beyond to a crumbled Word Wall at the zenith of the mountain – and stopped dead.

A dragon perched atop the Wall, watching their approach.

The massive creature looked old, somehow, pale green, with cracked horns and tattered wings, spines missing from its chin. Its blue eyes bored through the snowdrifts, wise and knowing, pierced his very soul. The beast did not react to the intruders’ arrival, motionless, tranquil in the storm.

Genos snapped from his shock. He leaped in front of Saitama and conjured his bow, and took quick aim at the winged reptile. His mind and muscles tightened with the drive to protect Saitama, to kill the beast before it could lay one claw on him. The dragon did not flinch, did not even blink, tail curling lazily.

Before Genos could loose a shot, Saitama laid a hand on his forearm and forced the summoned weapon down.

Genos looked to him in alarm, and faltered. Mystified by the Nord’s wry smirk, he let the tension bleed out of his bowstring. “Did I miss something…?”

The dragon let out a snort, and crawled forward over the Word Wall. It moved on the knuckles of its wings, as all dragons did, lumbered toward the travellers at a slow, heavy pace. It stopped just short of them, slung low to meet Saitama’s eye squarely.

“ _Drem Yol Lok_ ,” it rumbled, “greetings.”

While Genos stared, Saitama stooped in a deep bow. “Long time, Paarthurnax,” he said.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U62YkXZNs8M)
> 
> Dovahzhul (dragon language) translation:  
>  _Drem Yol Lok_ – literally “peace fire sky”, a common greeting between dragons
> 
>  **Context notes** :  
> * The **Seven Thousand Steps** leading up to High Hrothgar reference the legendary Mount Tai (or Tai Shan) in China, which is said to have seven thousand stairs leading to a summit that joins Heaven and Earth. In-game, there are actually only 748 steps leading to High Hrothgar.  
>  * ‘ **Mer** ’ collectively refers to the elven races (Altmer, Dwemer, Falmer, etc). The human races (Nords, Bretons, Imperials, Redguards) are known as ‘men’, while ‘beastfolk’ refers to Argonians (lizard-folk) and Khajiit (cat-folk).  
> * **Ice wraiths** are swift, elemental creatures of ice and snow. They are very agile and difficult to hit at range.  
>  * **Paarthurnax** (called the Old One by other dragons) is the leader of the Greybeards. He was Alduin’s lieutenant during the Dragon War, but betrayed him at Kynareth’s request to teach mankind the Thu’um.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	11. The Way of the Voice

*

 

For the highest point in Tamriel, cloaked in snow and ice and clouds, the winds over the Throat of the World blew oddly warm.

Maybe it was the heat rolling off the dragon’s massive body that curbed the chill, Saitama thought. Maybe it was how close he stood to Genos, whose conjured bow crackled and flickered with the eerie purple flames of Oblivion. Or maybe, he thought, his own nerves had numbed him to the cold, the apprehension of something _big_ in the minutes ahead.

He felt it in the air, in every fibre of his being. This place, this moment, was significant. Fated, perhaps, of great consequence. What happened here today would shape the future of Tamriel – perhaps even all of Nirn – one way or another.

‘Fate’ was not something Saitama used to believe in. He refused, once, to believe that his actions were predetermined, dictated by the gods. But in the cool blue eyes of Paarthurnax, quiet and deep as the heavens, he saw a reflection of a greater truth. He might not have accepted his fate before, but it had undoubtedly led him here.

It had led him to Genos, and that was all the proof Saitama needed.

He had needed to lose his Voice, to experience pain again. It taught him humility, wisdom, remorse, made him understand his role. Whether or not this was punishment or a lesson of guidance, only Akatosh could answer.

Genos dismissed his summoned weapon with a hiss of magic, and turned to face Saitama. His blond brow was knitted, heavy with suspicion and wonder. “The grandmaster of the Greybeards,” he said, “is a _dragon_?”

Saitama gave a start. Before he could answer, surprised that he had forgotten to mention this fact, the winged behemoth offered its rich, rumbling voice again.

“They see me as master,” it said. “ _Wuth_. _Onik_. Old and wise. I teach them the Way of the Voice, as I taught the _Dovahkiin_ , and the Thu’um to others before him. I am Paarthurnax. Welcome, _volaan_ , to my _strunmah_ , my mountain.”

Genos could not help but tense as the words washed over him. He felt the power in them, a deep-rooted and ancient magic that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Paarthurnax was far stronger than Kahodnir, the dragon Saitama had tamed. The thrum of its Voice resonated in his belly, a powerful bass, much like the short bursts of Saitama’s Shouts.

The Old One turned its broken face toward Saitama, who balled his nervous fists. “Tell me,” said Paarthurnax. “What brings you here again, _Dovahkiin_? Why do you intrude on my meditation?”

Saitama willed moisture into his mouth. Snow swirled in soft flurries around them, glanced unnoticed off the dragon’s scaly hide. “I need your help,” he said. The reply left him as little more than a whisper, fraught with shame. “I … I’ve lost my Voice.”

With a growl of confusion, Paarthurnax crawled closer. Saitama felt its breath sweep across him, hot and heavy, heard the shift of snow under its knuckles. He saw the gleam of the sky in its probing eyes, watched the scales around them crease in as puzzled an expression as a reptile could manage.

“Intriguing,” said the dragon. “The dragonblood still runs strong in your _zii_ , your soul. Yet, I sense _faas_ … the fear within. You are Silent, your Tongue stilled. How came to pass such a thing?”

Saitama shook his head. “I had a nightmare,” he said. He felt Genos’s gaze burn into the side of his face, but did not meet it. “Akatosh and Alduin. Alduin attacked me, and Akatosh let him. He didn’t say anything, but … I could tell he was mad at me. When I woke up, I couldn’t Shout.”

“Ah,” said Paarthurnax, the word long and drawn-out. He spoke slowly, precisely, a sage in dragon flesh. “Yes, mighty Akatosh. _Zu’u koraav_ … I understand.”

Growing impatient, it seemed, Genos waved a hand. “Do you know how to get my master’s Voice back?”

Paarthurnax hummed. “ _Drem_ , child. All in good time.” The dragon then looked to Saitama, body fluid with the motions of its breaths. “First, _Dovahkiin_ , a question. Why do you seek to regain your power?”

Saitama frowned at the beast. “To stop Alduin,” he said, blunt. Was it not obvious?

The Old One hummed again. The sound shuddered with disapproval. “We have had this conversation before,” said Paarthurnax. “You first came to me seeking a weapon against Alduin. I tasted great reluctance in your Thu’um. You were unwilling to accept your _suleyk_ , your path as Dragonborn … and in the three mortal years that have passed since that day, Alduin _lost ni mahlaan_. He remains. Now you return to me as a _joor_ , a mortal, and ask that I restore this unwanted power to you.”

The dragon bowed its weathered head.

“Why?”

Saitama stepped forward, snow creaking under his boots. “I _need_ it, to fight Alduin,” he said, and hissed out a sigh. “I’m the only one who can stop him. The prophecy says so.”

Genos kept quiet, stood a ways back with arms crossed. He sensed that he was no longer part of the discussion; instead, he watched his mentor’s irritation simmer. The cool winds nudged at his hair, tossed back the hood of his furs. The blizzard had eased somewhat, but the sky remained dark with snow. All this talk of Alduin and Voices and power made him uneasy, made him realise that there was still so much about Saitama he did not know.

Paarthurnax clicked its tongue. “Just because you can do a thing, does not always mean you should,” it said. “I said these words to you, once. It seems that you still have much to learn. You are still a plaything of _dez_ , of fate.”

Saitama dropped his gaze. A throaty grumble from Paarthurnax drew it upward again, almost at once, and his shoulders unclenched at the conflict in the creature’s rough face.

“No, _folaas_ ,” said the dragon, apologetic. “I speak incorrectly, _krosis_. You are not the Nord I recall … your spirit is bolder. You have changed, _Dovahkiin_ , and not just by way of Silence. You know the warmth of companionship. Perhaps this is the reason for your sudden conviction to destiny?”

Something fond flashed through Saitama, and he glanced back to Genos. The mage seemed to have tuned out of the conversation, oblivious, his intense stare pointed through the whiteout, far off to the sea. Saitama felt a swell of peace at the sight of him, taut muscles eased, and he returned to Paarthurnax with an awkward smile.

Perhaps.

The dragon shifted in place. “Ah, but I have spoken long enough,” it said. “ _Krosis_. I will heed your plight.”

Paarthurnax turned in the snow, edged away from its mortal visitors. After another glance at Genos, who answered with a curious look, Saitama followed across the mountaintop. The dragon led him to the crumbled Word Wall, where it shuffled around to address him again.

“The _dov_ are children of Akatosh,” said Paarthurnax. “While we inherit his power, it is but a fraction. We cannot shape souls any more than _joore_ , than mortals can. In a way, you have more power than we. The _dov_ are immortal, _unslaad_ , everlasting. Mortals possess the ability to change themselves, to adapt, to grow. You are not as resilient as we dragons, but you can reach places we cannot.”

Saitama tugged on the strap of his rucksack. “I don’t understand,” he said. A few feet back, he heard Genos rock his weight.

Paarthurnax sank almost flat to the ground, deep in thought. “How to explain in your tongue?” it said. “The _dov_ have words for such things that _jorre_ do not.”

The muted _crunch_ of snow announced Genos’s approach. Through the corner of his eye, Saitama saw the mage slip into place beside him. He almost wanted to ask if the blond felt ill, quiet and reserved as he was. His reticence in the presence of a dragon was understandable, Saitama thought, but out-of-character.

The Old One drew itself up. “I cannot restore to you your Voice, _Dovahkiin_ ,” it said, “no more than I could grant you wings or change the colour of your eyes. But, I can teach you how to reach into yourself.”

Saitama raised an eyebrow. “Okay,” he said. “And what good will that do?”

The dragon jerked its horned head, broken spines matte in the half-light. Saitama and Genos both followed the gesture, looked in the direction Paarthurnax had indicated. Their eyes caught on the odd shimmer in the air at the summit, the ghostly glimmer of energy between the Word Wall and the pillars that marked the path down the mountain.

“Time was shattered here because of what the ancient Nords did to Alduin,” said Paarthurnax. “The _Tiid-Ahraan_ , the Time-Wound, is a break in the fabric of the world, torn open by the power of an Elder Scroll. Mortal laws mean nothing to it, within it.”

Saitama tore his eyes away from the shimmer, like a heat haze in the blizzard, to squint his bewilderment at Paarthurnax.

“Sit, _Dovahkiin_ ,” said the ancient dragon. “Sit within the Time-Wound, and meditate. I will teach you to tap into its power, and commune with the _Dovah Sos_ , with the dragonblood. Then, you may speak with _Bormahu_ , our father … the one you call Akatosh.”

Saitama stared. Speak … with Akatosh? “That’s a terrible idea,” he said.

“Akatosh is the force that sealed your Thu’um,” said Paarthurnax, sternly. “To unlock it again, you must prove yourself _balaan_ – worthy of his gift. Now, sit.”

The Nord swallowed hard. The thought of standing before Akatosh filled him with dread, colder than the wind that grazed his cheeks. He peered into the haze of the Time-Wound, traced the dots of light that floated within it like dust motes. His feet had become lead, rooted, sore arms limp at his sides.

A cold, metal hand around his wrist pulled Saitama from his trepidation. He found Genos’s face close to his own, open and honest.

“I will be here,” said the mage.

The statement, low and soft, reassured him. Saitama took a deep breath, slid out of Genos’s grip, and marched toward the glimmer.

He felt no breeze within the distortion, no chill, the sight of his raised hand dancing before his eyes as if underwater. Likewise, sounds flowed muffled and distant. Saitama sat down in the snow, stiff where his bandages and injury restricted movement. He arranged himself cross-legged, hands on his knees, facing the Word Wall. He felt the light pressure of the Wound all around him, a subtle weight that calmed his stress like a hot bath.

Somewhere far away, he heard the dragon move in the slush. Its voice came subdued but firm, filtered through the energy of the Wound. “Knowing a Word of Power is to take its meaning into yourself,” said Paarthurnax. “When you meditate upon one, you become closer to the Word.”

Saitama closed his eyes, exhaled long and slow.

He remembered this.

More than once, years ago, he had sat up here with Paarthurnax, and contemplated the Words. Meditation made his Shouts stronger, and he had something of a knack for it. It was easy to focus on nothing, to do nothing, to drift in blank thoughts and let the knowledge flow through him.

Or, at least, it had been easy then.

He latched onto the muffled whispers of the wind, the thunder of the dragon’s voice and the cries of hawks high above. Intrusive thoughts spun through his mind, doubts, questions of _what if this doesn’t work_ and _I don’t want to be here_. He hushed them as best he could. Felt himself scowl, fingers digging into the leather of his thighs.

“ _Onikiv_ ,” came the voice of Paarthurnax. Saitama focused on it, on the groan of snow as the dragon slowly circled around him. “‘Enlightenment’, in your tongue. Many mortals seek to understand themselves. There is a greater insight within, an openness, vast knowledge contained in the soul. _Onikiv_. Ponder the meaning of enlightenment.”

Saitama let out another breath. Somewhere far, a wolf howled. Tension bled from his shoulders. His thoughts slowed, calmed. _Onikiv_. Nothing touched him, no icy zephyr, no worry. The ground fell away, left him weightless. He felt only peace.

“The man who explores his soul is wise to its depths,” Paarthurnax went on, “to the power it holds. That is ‘ _onikiv_ ’.”

 _Onikiv_. Yes, he understood. He remembered.

“Let its meaning fill you.”

The soul, dragonblood, the Thu’um … they were all the same thing, just as Akatosh was Oblivion and Nirn. He floated down, sank through darkness and dreams like sand.

“ _Su’um ahrk morah_.”

He knew that phrase. _Breath and focus_. Such was the Way of the Voice: steadiness, calmness, meditation. The search for inner peace. The song of the wind trailed away, left behind, warped beyond the bubble of the Time-Wound.

Thunder split the sky.

Saitama jerked alert. _Gasped_. Paarthurnax was gone. Genos was gone. The _mountain_ was gone. He found himself on his feet, hands bound, dressed in the clothes of a prisoner. Younger, with a full head of hair.

Around him, Helgen burned.

Acrid smoke made him cough, stung his eyes, heated his skin. Embers rained from above, from stormy skies like a churning inferno. Pained and panicked shrieks filled his ears, rooted him, the roar of fire. He stood dumbstruck, terror clawing at his chest. _This was the past_ , three years ago.

A man yelled, somewhere close. Saitama remembered the voice, remembered the man. _Ralof_ , a Stormcloak. Saitama dashed to him on instinct, chased him through the burning town, as he had three years before. Ralof would lead him to safety. The fear fanned through his core, the hot and broken ground stabbing his soles.

Alduin circled overhead, all black spikes and jagged lines. The dragon’s red eyes scorched like coals, searching.

Searching for _him_.

Saitama ran, followed the Stormcloak who had been in line for the headsman’s axe alongside him. Too scared to question how he had arrived back here, back in time, he tailed Ralof to the safety of the tower. He fled, frightened only for himself, not stopping to aid the townsfolk he passed. Those people were doomed to die, to be burned alive by the World Eater.

Again.

Alduin swooped low – and when his shadow passed over Saitama, the scene changed.

Now he stood with a crowd of city guards, all aiming bows or brandishing swords at the sky. Another dragon – a different one, not Alduin – rushed by above, the pull of its wings knocking Saitama into a stumble.

This was Whiterun, outside the ruined Western Watchtower. This was the first time he had fought a dragon, the moment he learned he was Dragonborn.

He dropped his sword and staggered in the grass, blinded by the Shout of fire in the dark night. Disoriented, he sensed his limbs seize up as the dragon landed hard on the earth. He watched it snap and twist, watched it catch one of the guards in those terrible jaws and toss him carelessly aside. The grass felt wet under the Nord’s palms, slick with dew, sweat cold in his hair and down the back of his leathers.

On autopilot, or perhaps muscle memory, Saitama picked himself up. The fear pulsed bright in his veins, like magma, but he drove himself forward to join the fray. He had fought this beast before, and won. He could do it again.

Once more, before he could swing his sword, the scene shifted.

Stale air, engraved walls, a corridor lit by the torches of the old bearded man and middle-aged woman who trailed behind him. The hallway opened into a huge room, where his followers split to explore on their own. The old man crossed to a long stretch of carvings on the far wall, held his flaming torch to the complex image etched there.

This was Alduin’s Wall, in Sky Haven Temple – an ancient sanctuary lost to time. The people with him were the last of the Blades, an order of dragon hunters.

Months had passed between this scene and the last. As Saitama walked, strands of dark hair fell from his scalp and drifted to the floor. He allowed Esbern – the old man – to talk him through the story carved into the Wall, listened for a way to defeat Alduin.

Familiar apathy swelled in his gut, indifference. He had only come here because the woman, Delphine, was more persistent than an Orc at a smelter. Dragonborn this, Dragonborn that. The Wall, exquisite and artful as it was, failed to move him. Numbness settled over his senses, dulled the dismay from his earlier visions.

This was the moment he had stopped pursuing his destiny – when he refused to search for the Elder Scroll that would help him defeat Alduin.

His body moved of its own accord, turned his back on Esbern as he had years ago. He strode away from Alduin’s Wall, past Delphine, toward the hallway that would take him out onto the plains of the Reach.

As he neared the exit, voices drifted through his mind.

_We can show you the Way, but not your destination._

_Power is inert without action and choice._

_Those that shrank from their destiny … well, you’ve never heard of them, have you?_

_S-Saitama, please, accept me as your apprentice!_

He opened his eyes.

_My place is at your side._

Akatosh loomed before him, huge and tranquil in that empty white space, scales agleam as if forged of solid gold. The dragon god’s wise eyes held him upright, kept him in place, and Saitama could only stare up in wonder.

The numbness shattered. Emotions tore through him, guilt and dread and grief, ripped him apart. He fell to his knees, caught himself with a _slap_ of hands on a floor that did not exist.

“I’m sorry–” he choked out. He could not look at the Aedra, tongue heavy and thick. His limbs shook beyond his control, but only for a moment. The remorse then solidified, reshaped itself into determination. The panic remained – but more focused, resolute, dangerous.

He did not know what to say, how to express what he felt. He _was_ Dragonborn. He had been a fool to try and dodge fate, to abandon Skyrim. This was his task, his _honour_. No apology would ever suffice, could possibly give form to the shame he held for what he had done.

He would do whatever he could to make up for the years he had wasted, for the souls he had let die in his neglect. He would stop Alduin, no matter what.

Unblinking, the golden dragon tilted its magnificent head. Almost as if to ask, _why_.

Saitama slid back from all fours, sank to sit on his calves before the deity. Akatosh knew his thoughts, so there was no need to speak. Yet … he wanted to. He wanted to say _something_ , something that would convince the Divine of his honesty.

He could try to voice his guilt, plead with the Aedra that he had learned his lesson. But, he did not. The words felt too generic, somehow, insincere in their vagueness. _Anyone_ would wish to atone for displeasing a god. It needed to be personal … selfish, even. In his experience, one could always count on a human to be selfish – and in their selfishness, motivated.

“I don’t want the world to end,” he said, “because, if it does … I’ll lose Genos.”

Akatosh blinked slowly.

The thought of the mage warmed Saitama’s insides, eased the unpleasant swirl of emotions in his belly. “He’s important to me,” he said, a soft smile on his lips. “More important than anything I’ve ever known. You taught me a lot by testing me, by taking my strength away, but he … he’s shown me a lot, too. More, maybe. If … if Alduin wins, and ends the world, Genos will disappear. I don’t want that – I _won’t_ let it happen.”

His expression hardened, and he clambered to his feet. The ground felt cold all of a sudden, yielded like slush beneath his boots, but he paid it no mind. He looked Akatosh square in the eye, and smacked a hand to his chest.

“I’ll follow the path you chose for me,” he said. “I’ll use my power and I’ll stop Alduin, so Genos can survive.”

Akatosh peered down at him for a long moment. The Dragon God of Time then showed him one final scene – but not one of the past.

A rugged field, wildflowers, the vibrant scent of the wilds. An atronach made of ice, hulking and faceless. Genos, ahead. An amulet hung around his neck, bronze, inset with blue gems. He looked older – _free_ , somehow. Unburdened. He struck the atronach down with a fireball, almost effortless, and turned to Saitama with bright eyes. The mage smiled wide when his gaze found his teacher, lips sealed.

 “Master…?”

Saitama gave a start, and whirled to face the voice.

The field faded, allowed white shapes to bloom through the lush flowers and grass. The Throat of the World came into focus around him, snow drifts and bowls of fire and a crumbled Word Wall. He smelled ice and rock and flame, heard the muffled howl of wind through the Time-Wound. The brown-grey of a young man in fur armour took form before the Nord, soft blond hair and a darker shade for the metal of his arm.

When Saitama found those wide, sharp, somehow _vulnerable_  silver eyes, a breath worked its way out of him. He had spoken aloud, and Genos had heard it all.

The mage dropped his shaken stare, fists clenched. Something passed over his face, threatened to scrunch it up, and he stumbled into a quick march. He strode across the stretch of snow between himself and Saitama, into the Time-Wound, and threw his arms around his mentor.

The Nord hugged him back, hard. The smell of Genos grounded him in the present, the heat of him, and he pressed his face into the side of the blond’s neck. Saitama knew he should have felt strange, with Paarthurnax watching, but could not bring himself to care. Genos’s grip was too strong, too full of meaning, to spare a thought for the old dragon’s opinion.

When they pulled apart, hands lingering on each other’s waists, the blond’s expression was earnest. Saitama saw a demand on his lips, and felt a flutter of hope that Genos would ask to kiss him.

“Shout,” he said instead.

Saitama shrugged off the pang of disappointment, and untangled himself from the boy. He stepped back, glanced up at the sky. Snow continued to fall, light and weightless, clouds grey and heavy. He felt Paarthurnax’s gaze on his back, sensed the dragon’s interest. Saitama inhaled.

“ _Lok Vah Koor!_ ”

A crack of thunder, a rush of wind. The remnants of the blizzard parted, the heavens split in two, cleaved around brilliant sunbeams. His Words banished the storm. Clear light touched the travellers in a warm caress, stilled the last flecks of falling snow. The air cleared, mist lifted, clouds swept away to grant a breathtaking view of the world far below.

Saitama and Genos both stared around, took in the toothed mountains and verdant forests and glittering streams. More dragons circled in the distance, towns and settlements scattered about the hills. It was a spectacular sight, but not enough to mask the relief that blossomed within the Nord. He looked sidelong to Genos, who caught his eye and nodded.

Saitama was whole again.

“ _Dovahkiin_.”

Both turned to face Paarthurnax – Genos with a start, as if he had forgotten the dragon’s presence. The winged reptile hunched low over the Word Wall, horned face as difficult to read as ever. Saitama stepped closer, curious. There was an odd pulling in his side, under the bandages, warmth where his wounds from the spriggan attack had begun to heal.

“It is done,” said the dragon. “ _Hi lost fin Thu’um_. Your Voice returns. Akatosh has granted you forgiveness. _Pruzah_. Our father’s mercy sings in your blood, but it is up to _you_ to decide if you will follow your destiny, or stray once more.”

Saitama folded his arms. “I won’t stray,” he said. He then glanced again at Genos, who frowned in confusion. “But … before I dive back into chasing after Alduin, there’s something else I wanna do first. Something for a friend.”

Paarthurnax hummed – not in disapproval, but thought.

Saitama saw the precise moment when Genos realised his teacher’s meaning. The blond shook his head, almost imperceptibly, the ripple of a swallow in his throat. “Master,” he said, “I have told you, I can wait. The fate of the world is more important than curing my condition. O-or, should we not take a moment to celebrate your health, first?”

Saitama crossed back to him, footfalls creaking in the snow. “Maybe,” he said. “Look, fair’s fair. We’ve fixed me, so now it’s your turn. You’ve waited long enough.”

Genos did not seem convinced. In contrast, he paled.

Saitama knew the reason why. If Genos’s cure was a simple matter of medicine, or even a healing spell, there would be no problem. As things stood, the only remedy to his lycanthropy lay in a rather morbid act. He had to eat the heart of a werewolf, while knelt before Hircine’s shrine.

And even if Genos were able to stomach such a thing, there was no guarantee it would fix him. The ‘cure’ might well kill him, if the wolf inside him did not want to leave. Daedric Princes, and their ‘blessings’, were fickle like that.

Still….

Genos was strong. With every fibre of his being, Saitama believed that the mage could endure this trial. It would not be pleasant, but he could survive. And, if not … Saitama would find a way to Hircine’s Hunting Grounds, give the Prince a piece of his mind, and drag Genos back to the land of the living himself.

He was Dragonborn. He could do anything. _Would_ do anything, for Genos.

He mustered his brightest look of encouragement, and clapped a hand – lightly – to his disciple’s shoulder. “C’mon, kid, he said. “You’ve got a date with the wolf.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/X3iSxmKECLo)
> 
> Dovahzul (dragon language) translation:  
>  _Volaan_ \- "intruder"  
>  _Drem_ \- "peace/patience"  
>  _Folaas_ \- wrong action, choice, or judgment  
>  _Krosis_ \- an apology  
>  _Pruzah_ \- "good"
> 
>  **Context notes** :  
> * **The Blades** are an ancient order, originally dragon hunters. When the dragons disappeared after Alduin was sent forward in time, the Blades became like bodyguards to the Emperors of Tamriel.  
>  * _Lok Vah Koor_ is the “Clear Skies” Shout. It removes weather effects, and using it is how the player is supposed to clear the blizzards on the path up to Paarthurnax. Its individual words mean Sky, Spring, Summer.  
>  * Sharp-eyed readers who have played _Skyrim_ may notice that, in the vision from Akatosh, Genos is wearing an **Amulet of Mara**. Make of that what you will....
> 
> [Tumblr](http://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	12. The Taste of Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Content warnings_ : gore  
>  _Disclaimer_ : everything's going to be fine. Trust me.  
> .

*

 

Genos was uncomfortable.

Saitama led the way through Whiterun’s Wind District, past the vibrant Gildegreen tree and toward Jorrvaskr – the mead hall that served as the Companions’ home. The blond remembered his first encounter with the group quite vividly. Big brute Farkas had been pleasant enough, all things considered, but Aela ‘the Huntress’ was … confrontational.

They had met when Genos was in his cursed form, mindless and savage. Aela had afterward told him that such a wild beast would draw suspicion to the Companions, whose inner Circle possessed the beastblood themselves. Aela had all but threatened Genos to stay away from the group, to steer clear of Whiterun.

The implication of her warning was clear: a feral werewolf was not welcome in her territory.

But things were different now, Saitama had reassured him. Genos had _true_ beastblood, like Aela and Farkas and the rest of the Circle, not a curse that made him transform at random. As such, he posed no threat to the Companions’ secret. He could control himself, would not bring violence into their home. Aela and the others should be more accepting of him now – less wary, at least.

_Should_. Genos balled his fists, close behind Saitama as they climbed the hill of steps to Jorrvaskr. ‘Should’ did not ease the mage’s nerves – nerves that Saitama could almost _taste_ from two feet away.

The Nord paused, halfway up the steps, and turned to look back at his apprentice. The blond’s frame buzzed with tension, anxious, head down and jaw set. Guilt struck Saitama at the sight, knowledge that Genos’s discomfort – and their current presence in Whiterun – was _his_ fault.

Yesterday, after speaking with Paarthurnax, the Greybeards had insisted that he spend the night in their monastery. It would let him finish healing from the spriggan attack, they said, and Saitama and Genos both agreed. Unfortunately, paired with the days spent travelling to High Hrothgar, this delay had given the werewolf heart in his backpack time to degrade.

While Genos had never looked forward to eating the heart – the only known way to rid himself of beastblood – he doubted a mouthful of maggots would improve its flavour.

They had wasted too much time, and now his cure was useless.

Upon this discovery, Saitama had been too apologetic to meet his student’s eye. They needed a fresh heart, he said, a fresh corpse. The Silver Hand, werewolf hunters, could surely provide such a thing – but their camps and hideouts were hidden, clandestine. There were no rumours, no bounties, no clues on even where to begin searching.

Genos had been the one to suggest they visit Jorrvaskr. This had earned him a horrified stare from Saitama, who thought he meant to take one of the Circle’s hearts instead. A shocked Genos quickly explained: if the Silver Hand hunted the Companions, then it stood to reason that the Companions did some hunting of their own.

Saitama paused on the steps of Jorrvaskr, took in the sight of his worried student below. The pounding of an anvil rose from the Skyforge, somewhere behind the mead hall, the smell of smoke from braziers that edged the steps. The Companions’ home resembled an upturned longboat, with shields mounted to its eaves and dragon-themed accents in the metalwork.

Saitama scratched the back of his neck. “C’mon, kid,” he said. “This was your idea. A good one, too – the Circle should know where to find the Silver Hand.”

Genos shuffled in place. Saitama was right, he knew. It made sense that the Companions knew their enemy’s location. He met his teacher’s eye and nodded once, and started up the steps again. Saitama jogged ahead, backpack rattling, and shoved open one of the two tall doorways.

The threshold opened into a grand, warm, high-ceilinged hall, lit by a central fire pit and candle chandeliers. Tables of food and drink framed the fire, colourful rugs underfoot and red-gold banners draped from support beams. At once, the sounds of a fight met their ears; a scrawny Dark Elf and a Nord woman were trading blows, brawling in an open space on the left of the room. Several Companions had gathered to watch, yelled encouragements over the taunts and _thud_ of punches.

Genos breathed deep. He smelled werewolves here, strangers as well as Aela and Farkas. Five, in total. The heavy scents raised the hairs on his nape, prickled at his instincts.

Across the room, he spotted Aela. She stood with arms folded and hips at a slant, wry amusement on her face as she watched the brawl. At the creak of the door, she tore away from the fight. Her sharp eyes flashed when they found Genos, and her posture stiffened. With squared shoulders and a dangerous expression, she strode across the room to meet the intruders.

“What are _you_ doing here?” she shot, over the cheers and shouts. Her voice pierced the din with smooth, accusing ease; she ignored Saitama altogether, and instead glared daggers at the mage. “I thought I made myself clear–”

The Huntress froze, cut herself off. Saitama opened his mouth to interject, but Aela sniffed the air before he could speak. Her nostrils whistled as that icy glare dropped to Genos’s mismatched hands, and she squinted at the band of skin where his cursed ring used to sit. Her eyes then snapped up to meet his, suspicious, traced the rings of silver that bordered his pupils.

“I see,” she muttered. The aggression bled from her stance. Intrigue creased her brow, furrowed the green paint that cleaved her face like claw marks. “You have been born into the pack.”

Genos faced away. Her words made his skin crawl, but at the same time stirred an odd thrill in the back of his mind. He pushed it aside.

A yell from the fighting Companions drew their stares, and Aela jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Let us speak in private,” she said.

Without delay, she turned on her heel and strolled to the right side of the room. After a shared raising of eyebrows, Genos and Saitama followed her. The Huntress led them around the grand table, past a weapons rack and a cupboard of crockery, to a staircase that descended into the floor. The doorway at its foot opened into a darker hall, narrow and cluttered, void of people and lit by modest candles. This was the living quarters, lined with bedrooms and stacks of firewood. With the sounds of the brawl muffled above, Aela came to a halt and crossed her arms again.

“So,” she said, pride on her lips. Behind Genos, still ignored, Saitama snagged an apple from a table by the wall. “You wish to become Shield-Siblings with others of your kind. Understandable. We are strongest together, brother.”

Genos felt himself tense. He wanted to call out her hypocrisy, to mock how fast she changed her tune. If he treasured his beastblood, her faith in the pack would have inspired him. As things were, however, he did not like the way she jumped to conclusions about what he wanted.

“Actually,” he said, and gestured at Saitama to include him in the conversation. The Nord straightened up from the fruit bowl, but made no effort to hide the apple in his hand. Genos fought down a smile. “We hoped that you could tell us where we might find the Silver Hand.”

Aela’s pride returned at once, seized her face in a smirk. “I see,” she said again. “You wish to help us bring the fight to them?”

Genos paused to think over his answer. He took care to speak vaguely, doubtful that she would be keen to help if he gave too many details. “I believe they can provide something that will cure me.”

The redhead scowled, incredulous. “ _Cure_?” she repeated. She tossed back her head, and let out a bark of laughter. “You sound like the old man.”

Genos frowned, equal parts confused and irritated. “Old man?” At his flank, Saitama bit into his stolen apple with a wet _crunch_.

Aela’s scorn ebbed, and she sighed. “I shouldn’t speak of him that way,” she said. Genos smelled the shift in her mood, guilt like a spice in the air of the living quarters. “Kodlak Whitemane, our Harbinger. He is a great man, a father to us all. I love him, would follow him anywhere. But he’s wrong on this, and you are, too.

“The beastblood is no curse,” she told the mage. “We’re made into the greatest hunters in the land. If you’re worried about some mead-swilling afterlife in Sovngarde, or whatever happens to you Bretons, you’re free to pursue it. I’ll take the glories of the hunt right here.”

Genos wrinkled his nose. “Do you know where to find the Silver Hand, or not?”

Aela eyed him with disdain. “They have camps all over Skyrim,” she said. “But if you’re serious about this, that’s all I’m going to say. I’ll play no part in forsaking Hircine’s gift.”

Genos held his tongue. In spiteful silence, he let her brush past him and stride to the door that led up into the main hall. Aela shoved through and disappeared, left him alone with Saitama in the dim-lit corridor.

Saitama sighed around his mouthful of apple. He set the half-gnawed core down on the nearest table, and wiped his hands on his leathers. “Okay,” he said, “time to find Kodlak. Sounds like he’ll be more sympathetic.”

Genos turned. “You know him, master?”

“Ah, no,” said Saitama. “This is my first time in Jorrvaskr. I’ve only been to Whiterun twice before – that night with you, and once to tell the Jarl that Alduin attacked Helgen.”

A handful of other Companions wandered the deeper living quarters. Genos knew from their scents that they were not werewolves. He did, however, detect two such scents from farther ahead. He followed them, like trails of colour in the half-lit hall, passed sacks and barrels and desks of more food and ale. Saitama followed behind, curious.

The scents led Genos to a luxurious room at the end of the passage. Through its open doorway, seated at a small table, he saw a man who looked a lot like Farkas – but better-groomed, and dressed in polished armour. This warrior was not alone; he shared the company of another man, elderly, with long white hair and dark face paint on one weathered cheek.

That must be Kodlak, thought Genos.

Both men glanced up when the mage entered, Saitama at the rear. The oldest man shifted in his chair, arms crossed. His was a wise face, grizzled and weary.

“Strangers come to our hall,” he said, in a deep voice. “Welcome.”

Genos wasted no time. “Kodlak Whitemane?”

The old man hummed. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he said. Beside him, the Farkas lookalike raked leery eyes over the intruders.

The blond stepped forward. “My name is Genos,” he said. “I seek to rid myself of the beastblood.”

Kodlak studied him for a long moment, deep in thought. He then addressed the man in armour, and nodded up at the ceiling. Muted shouts and impacts rang through from the floor above, sounds of the brawl that still raged in the mead hall. “Vilkas,” he said, “go find your brother. See to it he’s not encouraging the younglings, won’t you?”

The armoured man stood with a grinding rustle of steel. “Aye,” he said. He cast one last grimace at Saitama, then strode out of the room and down the hall.

With Vilkas gone, Kodlak gestured to the now-empty chair across his table. “Take a seat,” he said. He then met Saitama’s eye and indicated another chair, set a few feet back by a desk. “You, as well. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Genos sat without a word. He kept his focus on Kodlak, watched him with intent as Saitama shrugged out of his backpack and flopped down.

The leader of the Companions wore Skyforge steel, face bearded and clever with age. Yet, tiredness lurked about the wrinkles. His eyes shone as silver as his armour, perhaps brighter, expression grave and sincere.

“I imagine you would have an easier time curing yourself than I,” he said, and sat back to rest a hand on the table. “We werewolves of the Companions were tricked into the beastblood hundreds of years ago, by the witches of Glenmoril Coven, who worship Hircine. I have spent my twilight years searching for a cure. I have learned this: the witches’ magic ensnared us, and only their magic can release us.

“But you acquired the blood elsewhere,” Kodlak went on, sombre. “Our remedy would not work for you, I fear. It pains me to say this, youngling, but I do not know how to help you.”

Genos leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “I already know what I must do,” he said. “A ritual. I must take the heart of a werewolf to Glenmoril Coven, to Hircine’s shrine. All I need from you is information, on where I can find the Silver Hand.”

The shadows in Kodlak’s brow deepened. “The Silver Hand …” he said. “I see. You plan to pluck such a heart from one of the poor souls those barbarians have captured and slain.”

He reached for a mug of ale, and took a moment to drink. Genos glanced to Saitama in the pause, quiet in his seat, saw him staring at the continental map on Kodlak’s desk. Despite his glazed expression, Genos knew that his master was still focused on the talk.

“I appreciate you not taking the easier path,” said Kodlak, as he swirled the last of the ale in his mug, “and killing me or one of my own for our hearts. Even in your desperation, you are honourable.”

Genos shook his head. “I am not so desperate,” he said.

How true this was, he thought.

Over the last few days, in his care of the weakened Saitama, Genos had been able to overlook his hatred for the wolf inside him. He was still far from accepting of the beastblood, but the fact of its presence held less urgency than before. He could suppress it, ignore it. Saitama’s wellbeing took precedence, and even now he felt no need to free himself immediately.

He slumped in his chair, frowned at his knees. Confusion weighed on his shoulders, conflict.

Did he want to free himself _at all_?

He was more powerful as a werewolf. Physical power, on par with his magic. He was faster, his senses sharper, more attuned to the world around him. It gave him immunity to disease and poison, made him durable and resilient, put him closer to Saitama’s unattainable strength.

His feelings toward lycanthropy had changed since the cursed ring fell from his finger, he realised, the disgust given way to understanding. Before, he had hated the _curse_. He had hated the fear, the constant disquiet of not knowing when a transformation would seize him. He could turn at any moment, lose his mind to feral instinct and slaughter every unfortunate soul around him.

That was not a problem anymore.

_He_ chose when he turned. He had full control, over mind and mighty body alike. Where was the harm in keeping the beastblood for now, so long as he cured himself before Hircine claimed his soul in death? In this moment, here in Jorrvaskr, Genos saw no downsides.

No, that was untrue. The wolf had killed his family. His hands tightened on his thighs, fingers digging into the flesh through his furs. If he let it into himself, accepted it, where was his honour then?

The mage felt Saitama’s stare burn the side of his face, but found he could not face him. Instead, he met Kodlak’s eye. He dared not picture his own expression, the emotions leaking through the cracks in the calm mask he tried to hide behind.

The Harbinger smiled, knowing and somehow sad. Was the blond so easy to read? “You will find their closest hideout in Lost Knife Cave,” said Kodlak, “near Fort Amol, on the eastern base of the Throat of the World.”

Genos sat up straight. The conflicted feeling swelled, liquid cold in his chest. “Thank you,” he said. He made to hop upright and lead Saitama from the room, but Kodlak’s bony hand around his wrist stopped him dead.

“A word of caution,” the old man warned. “The Silver Hand are not to be underestimated. I do not know if you have met them before, but I sense you are new to your blood. They are hunters, and their weapons can hurt you, can kill you with ease. If all you seek is a heart, I would advise that you do not rush into their lair.”

For the first time, Saitama spoke up. “The stealthy approach, huh?” he said. He set a fist on his hip, and jabbed the other thumb into his own chest. “Well, kid, lucky for you, I still remember my time in the Thie- uh, y’know. The Guild. I can sneak us in and out, no problem.”

Kodlak eyed him with suspicion, but only for a moment. He released Genos and nodded his approval, and drained the last of his ale. “Talos guide you, lad.”

Words stuck in his throat, Genos sidled around Saitama to leave Kodlak’s quarters. He continued at a quick march down the corridor, able to hear Saitama’s footfalls in his wake. He pushed through the door at the end of the hall, ill at ease, and climbed the stairs to the main hall. It seemed that the brawl had ended: the Companions were gathered at the clustered tables, busy with bread and mead and meats and laughter. Genos spotted the Dark Elf from the fight, now rather battered, sat next to Aela.

Without a word to her, or the other Companions, the mage strode out through the doors of Jorrvaskr. He descended the steps to the Gildegreen tree at that same hurried pace, and led his quiet teacher along the path to the Plains District market. They followed the cobbles between an inn and the Warmaiden’s smithy, on a beeline to the grand gates of Whiterun.

All the while, Genos kept his voice to himself. His insides writhed, the turmoil of expectations and impulse. His thoughts had caught in a loop, short and panicked. The next step was to head to Lost Knife Cave and claim a werewolf heart – but after the realisation in Kodlak’s quarters, he found himself at odds. Undecided.

He did not know if he wanted to go through with the ritual, as much as he loathed the idea of having Hircine watch over him. The beastblood was too useful, a boon, an advantage in battle. Was curing himself what he truly wished for, deep in his own heart, or would it just be an action born of spite?

Unable to choose, he kept walking.

The two passed the stables outside Whiterun, turned right at the fork in the cobbled road. They left the path not long after, waded through tall grasses toward the Western Watchtower. Once they were a good distance from any sight of people, Saitama filled his lungs and called for Kahodnir.

While they waited for the dragon to answer the summons, Genos recognised that he was shaking. The sun still burned high in the sky, the clouds sparse and air balmy. These facts, combined with his furs, told the blond that his shivers stemmed from nerves. He was panicking, mind whirling faster than he could process.

He needed time to analyse his thoughts, to figure out what he wanted to do. Saitama’s loyal lizard arrived all too soon, however, and Genos then found himself straddling its broad neck behind his mentor. As Kahodnir spread its massive wings, he noticed Saitama’s silence. For once, Genos appreciated the lull in conversation.

From above, Whiterun’s three districts were cleanly divided. Kahodnir carried the travellers along the winding White River, followed its course to a familiar fork. Genos recognised the bridges below, the branch where they had days ago turned right to reach Riverwood. This time, Saitama steered the dragon left. They aimed southeast, circled the Throat of the World. Genos spotted a giants’ campfire on a plateau below, where the water cleaved the woods of Whiterun into the rugged terrain of Eastmarch.

Fort Amol stood proud against the trees. At Saitama’s urging, Kahodnir took a more southern route through the clouds. A jagged path zig-zagged up the mountainside; a large pond sat at its base, in the trees, fed by a thin waterfall that poured from the rough rock face. Genos swallowed his nerves as Saitama steered Kahodnir lower, the descent swift and controlled.

They landed on the bank of the pond, nestled at the foot of the cliff. Genos dismounted first, all but threw himself from the winged lizard. Blue dragonflies skimmed the water’s surface, his ears abuzz with the sounds of birds and cicadas. A fox wandered close as Saitama also hopped down, but Genos found himself distracted by a scent in the air.

Blood. He traced the smell to the head of a werewolf, skewered on a spike outside an opening in the rocks.

Saitama gave the dragon’s scaly nose a grateful pat. “Well, we’re in the right place,” he said. After trying and failing to catch Genos’s eye, he looked to Kahodnir. “Wait here. We won’t be long.”

The massive beast hunkered down in the grass, flattened itself with wings tucked in to avoid nearby trees. “As you command, _thuri_.”

Fists clenched, Genos approached the mouth of the cave. Brownish red stained the ground at the entrance, led inside the dull passageway. Before he could enter, Saitama’s hand snagged his shoulder in a firm grip.

“What’s going on?” he said. Genos flung his gaze to the pond before Saitama could capture it. The trees blotted the sunlight somewhat, cast dappled shadows over their bodies. “You’re quiet. It’s … weird. Everything okay?”

Genos shrugged him off, and approached the cave. “I am fine.”

Fern-like leaves grew from the walls of the narrow tunnel, roots and vines trailing from the roof, lit by torches in moist brackets. Genos led, as before, crept beside the rocky stream that flowed in through the entrance. The tunnel widened, ground uneven and air damp. Warmer light flickered up ahead, a campfire at a turn in the passage. Running water marked the only sound, musical but eerie.

A sudden cough stopped the mage in his tracks. He watched a man, a Silver Hand, emerge from the gloom at the bend, watched him approach the bonfire with a lowered guard.

Genos’s fingers flared with Magicka, ready to summon his bow and shoot the man – but Saitama stepped in front before he could cast the spell. A wicked smirk creased the Nord’s face, eyes bright with mischief. He then faced away from Genos, and cupped a hand over his mouth.

“ _Zul Mey Gut!_ ”

His Shout was a whisper, hushed and strained, a rasp that Genos struggled to hear from mere inches away. A split second later, a second voice – loud and raucous – rang out from farther down the passage.

_“Hey, ugly!”_

The hunter whirled beside the fire, movement scattering embers, startled by the taunt. Genos stared. The yell sounded like Saitama’s voice, but had not seemed to leave his lips: it came instead from the far end of the tunnel, disembodied. He watched in awe as the Silver Hand drew his sword and dashed off to investigate the cry, leaving their path clear.

Saitama took point, now, led Genos quietly around the distracted Hand. They crossed the brook at a natural stone bridge, and headed deeper into the cave.

“You sure you wanna do this?” said Saitama, stance and voice both low, once they were a safe distance from the confused hunter.

Genos looked up from his feet, doing his best to imitate his teacher’s stealthy half-crouch. Despite what he claimed about leaving the Thieves Guild, the Nord still knew how to slink around. “Yes,” he lied.

Saitama glanced back at him, concerned through the murk. “You don’t _sound_ sure,” he said. A bead of water dripped from the ceiling, echoed in the stillness. “You’re allowed to change your mind, you know.”

Genos did not answer, mind in a knot as he moved with as little noise as he could.

The tunnel opened into a vast cavern, one whose floor vanished in a sharp drop down to a lake. A central stone pillar stretched from the water to the roof, linked treacherous rock walkways to holes in the chamber walls. A wooden platform clung to the pillar, weighed down by more Silver Hand on patrol. Genos stayed close as Saitama chose the left path, keeping to the shadows while they traversed the catwalk.

Tripwires and hanging bone chimes lined the new tunnel. They slipped past a female Hand, and paused near the end of the channel. A man stood on a raised platform ahead, another patrolling on the ground. Saitama waited for the one on the platform to turn away, then tiptoed after the man on the ground. Genos crept in tow, afraid to blink for fear of being caught. The oblivious hunter turned up a slope, strolled back up over the same passage they had arrived by. The intruders tailed him, climbed the hill until they saw an opening over the lake ahead.

A separate tunnel branched up to the right, lit by sconces. Genos smelled more people that way, along with the distinctive odour of werewolf. He tapped Saitama’s shoulder and pointed to say as much, and chased his mentor into the main hideout.

The new area looked different, smelled different – of mould and ale and wooden furniture. Genos heard a voice, a drunken man singing off-tune. The warbles came from a large hole in the wall; the two slipped by it, then helped each other scale a catwalk that would take them deeper through the lair. Another waterfall cut through this tunnel from roof to floor, flecked them with cold spray in passing. The smell of wolf grew stronger, and came to a peak when the passage met a large chamber.

The space was lined with metal cages, the ground tiered in plinths and littered with bones and garbage. The pens housed werewolves, at various stages between dead and alive. Many Silver Hand, men and women, circled the room, guarding their sick haven. Saitama and Genos both sank into a crouch in the raised entrance, the mage with bile in his throat. Any worries he had about the ritual ahead were shoved aside by hatred of the Hand, stoked by the stink of death.

Saitama touched a palm to the damp rock of the floor, down on his knees. “I’m still hoping to avoid a fight,” he muttered. He looked to Genos and nodded once, then rose. “Wait here.”

Genos hissed a protest, one which went wholly ignored. He watched with a growl on his lips as Saitama crept away, watched him drop from the entrance onto the roof of the closest cage. The beast inside did not stir, already deceased and still. Saitama lowered himself to the ground before the cage, and fished a dagger and sliver of metal from his pack.

Genos acted as sentry, eyes on the Silver Hand while Saitama picked the lock. He counted six of them in view, and could hear more around corners and behind the cages. Their conversations, dull-witted and vulgar, did not interest him, but he listened in anyway to tune out the haze of emotions in his gut. Part of him wanted to release the captive wolves still alive, but he forced himself to stay focused. He was here as a thief, not a hero. The poor beasts had likely been here so long that they no longer remembered who they were, anyway, and were liable to attack if freed.

A Hand drew dangerously near, on his oblivious way to a table in the corner. Genos readied his Conjuration magic, breaths shallow where he crouched. Dread danced on his tongue, the weightlessness of apprehension. Below, he saw Saitama slip into the cage with the dead werewolf. He ground his teeth and willed the approaching hunter away, hoped the sounds of autopsy from the pen would not carry through the cavern.

The man neared, too close. One sideward glance and he would spot Saitama, or Genos hunched on the rocky outcrop. Still, Genos did not act. Oblivion swirled around his fingertips, poised to summon an atronach, but he forced himself to wait. They could still avoid a fight. He glanced down in time to see Saitama wipe his stained hands on a rag from his pack, the dead beast’s chest bathed in shadow.

By some miracle, the Hand agent failed to notice the intruders in the lair. He strolled past the row of cages with a tuneless hum on his lips, battleaxe sheathed. A beat later, Genos heard Saitama hiss up to him. The blond dismissed his magic and helped Saitama climb up onto the cage, then stole away with him along the edge of the room.

Light on their feet, they circled around a lowered area that resembled an arena or fighting ring. The stream from earlier flowed through it, trickled over rocks and under a wooden doorway in the far wall. Weaving between barrels and cages, the trespassers slipped through and waded back into the main chamber. They retraced their steps along the water and walkways, down the tunnel and out to where Kahodnir lay in wait in the grass.

Rain had begun to fall during their time in the cave. As they climbed aboard the off-gold dragon, Genos drew up the hood of his furs. The sudden lurch skyward knocked it back again, and he clung to Saitama for support. The Nord grasped his arm without hesitation, steadied him as Kahodnir spiralled up through the fog.

Mist wreathed the mountainside, painted it in pale shades of blue and green and grey. The pond shrank in their ascent, swallowed by the trees when Saitama steered toward the Throat of the World. Rain battered the passengers’ backs, cold and unpleasant. Distant, through the fog, Genos saw another dragon gliding. They climbed so high that he could see the whole continent, glints of meandering streams amid rough terrain.

The rain turned to snow when they headed west, closer to the mountain, whiting out the scenery. As he squinted through the blizzard, nose raw in the chill, Genos wondered how his mentor knew where he was going. They circled the Throat for a while, skimming lower and lower, until High Hrothgar loomed through the sleet. Saitama navigated from the monastery, down the mountainside and along the river until they passed a Nordic Temple in the hills. They climbed again, low enough that Genos could see Skyrim’s rugged border with Cyrodiil to the south. The snow eased, tundra below morphing into the woodlands of Falkreath hold.

Mid-flight, Genos squeezed his master’s sides without meaning to. He stared intently at Saitama’s rucksack, which pressed against his own front, tried to peer through it to the bloody object he knew sat wrapped within.

The panic set in again. He was not ready.

A foot-worn path marked the earth ahead, the area dense with trees. The trail led to another cave entrance, like a crack in the rocks. Saitama steered their winged steed lower; Kahodnir caught the air to slow their descent, and landed hard in the thick grass by the trail. The dragon flattened itself with a rumbling snort, head pointed straight where the Nord gripped its horns.

On closer inspection, the grass near the cave was not quite so lush. Purple flowers blanketed the ground, deathbell and poisonous nightshade, nearby trees dead and withered. Taproots hung from the branches in nets, a lure used by witches to attract and trap spriggans. Braziers lit the mouth of Glenmoril Coven, somehow uninviting despite the flames, the cold air sweet with the stench of decay.

Genos slid down after his teacher this time, transfixed by a handmade effigy near the entrance. It was some kind of horrific tribute to Hircine: a ribcage, propped upright by large deer antlers, with the horned skull of another deer on top. Genos shuddered, nauseous while Saitama gave Kahodnir permission to leave. The dragon spread its wings and took off in a mighty downdraft, and soared away with a roar.

The sound of rain hammered on inside the cave. It was dank and dull, lit an odd shade of yellow, a rocky tunnel rife with weeds. The travellers crept side-by-side, neither interested in leading.

At a makeshift sconce, the path forked. No sounds of life echoed, no movements beside the explorers’ own, only the dribble of water and shifting dust. There was no-one around, no sign of the witches mentioned by Kodlak.

The Coven was more maze than cave, with many branching paths and chambers. Unsure where to go, they moved cautiously. The atmosphere hung still, stuffy and quiet, sinister. Saitama’s ears, while not as sharp as Genos’s, caught the flutter of a campfire, but no activity.

The silence from his fair-haired student drowned out everything else. As he walked, Saitama felt the tension radiate off him. The blond had gone stiff, he noticed, joints locked where he marched, expression unreadable.

The kid had every right to be afraid, he thought. There was a good chance that the ‘cure’ would kill him. Saitama knew better than to speak his mind or make up advice out of nowhere, not wanting to influence the decision. It was _Genos’s_ decision to make, after all, not his.

Still, he worried.

He worried that the cure would not work. He worried it _would_. He worried that Hircine would pull another manipulative trick, throw one more obstacle at them at the last possible moment. Saitama hissed out a sigh. Genos was strong, he reminded himself, was healthy and strong-willed. He could defeat the spirit of the animal within him. There was no reason to worry.

Against that logic, his chest tightened. The backs of his hands felt sore and spiny, as if needles had burrowed into the flesh. Saitama recognised the emotion as fear, something he had grown familiar with of late. _What if, what if_. He pictured things before he could stop himself, awful things: pain and tears and ragged gasps, pleas on bloody lips, silver eyes void of life. An empty future, a lonely future, a grave topped with an arm made of Dwemer metal.

No, he told himself. Genos would be fine. He forced the doubts and worries down, focused on the moment. Whatever happened, he would deal with it as it came.

All the same, now would be a good time to tell the kid how much he meant to him.

They stumbled upon a misty chamber, one where water trickled from the roof to pool deep and stagnant on the floor. Saitama made to waltz on in, indifferent, but stopped dead when hard fingers fastened around his wrist. He glanced back, and frowned at the grimace on his disciple’s face. Genos looked ashen, on-edge, distracted. Those colourless eyes travelled past Saitama’s head, through the threshold and on to a raised rock ledge across the pool. Saitama followed his stare; he saw some kind of table – the shrine – up on the ledge, concealed behind a screen made of leather and pelts. A large tent stood behind it, like an ominous shadow, the air thick with eerie Daedric energy.

Saitama looked back to the blond. “You okay?”

Genos did not seem to hear him. “In here,” he said. Without another word, he stepped past Saitama and circled around the pool. His footfalls slapped swift on the wet stone, loud in the silence of the cave. Uneasy, Saitama followed.

Hircine’s shrine was engraved, ornate with morbid beauty, stained by blood and scoured with two deep slits like the slash of a blade. A deer’s skull sat on its right end, a cluster of small candles melted to the dry bone. The table’s carvings resembled the upper part of a skeleton, with curved ribs and a spinal cord, but the bloodstain obscured its head.

Saitama watched Genos reach out and touch it, the mage’s face knitted and unreadable. Nostrils flared, the blond then twisted to meet his mentor’s eye. In silent understanding, Saitama crouched and shrugged out of his rucksack. He fished through its contents for the bowl he used to prepare fish, and pulled out the knot of red-blotched cloth inside. Mouth dry, he passed the bundle to Genos.

Neither man moved for a while, both staring at the wrapped heart in Genos’s mismatched hands. Saitama cleared his throat, watched the lump in Genos’s throat bob when he tried to swallow.

“If you want me to leave the room for a bit…” he said, trailing off at the way the blond’s shoulders tensed.

“That might be best,” said Genos. He did not look up, did not even blink. His cheeks shone pale in the refracted light of the water, queasy.

With difficulty, Saitama forced himself to turn around. No-one would want an audience for something like this, he thought. He urged life into his heavy legs, strode back around the stagnant pool toward the exit. At the mouth of the tunnel, though, he hesitated. Words of encouragement and affection died on his tongue, reassurances and well-wishes and jokes. Feeling lost, and more than a little useless, he stepped out to let Genos eat in peace.

_Eat_. Gods, help him.

Alone, Saitama swore to himself. He crouched in the passageway and covered his mouth, tried not to picture Genos sinking to his knees before the shrine. Tried not to picture him unwrapping the heart, biting it. He knew Daedric Princes had sick senses of humour – but _this_? This was awful. Saitama felt ill, transfixed on the memory of cutting the organ loose.

In spite of himself, he sent a silent prayer to the Divines.

He waited.

Seconds crawled by, minutes like weeks. Years, even, painful and tense. He heard nothing but the steady drip of water, the queasy gurgle of his own stomach, the scrape of skin against stone when he dragged his hands to the ground. The fear refused to budge, guts weighed down by trepidation.

A soft whimper met his ears.

Saitama jerked alert, stood up so fast that he lost his balance. He whirled around, peered through the gloom with bated breath. In the waterlogged chamber, just above the leather screen, he spotted the hunched arch of Genos’s back and shoulders. The visible sliver of his disciple shuddered, shaking where he rocked on all fours before the shrine. As Saitama stepped forward in alarm, he heard a second whine – and the sliver dropped, disappeared when Genos collapsed with a _clank_ of his metal arm.

Saitama cursed, dashed into the chamber and up onto the ledge. He found Genos on the floor, writhing and moaning, curled up on his side. His teeth were bared in obvious pain, brow scrunched up and damp with sweat, face pushed into the dirt. The sounds that left him were strained and choked, scared. Saitama hovered over him, not sure what to do.

As he watched, the spirit of the wolf ripped free.

It tore its way out of Genos, a force of bestial rage, all fangs and snarls and blood-slicked fur. Saitama scrambled back, mouth agape while the mage’s body bent with the strength of the wolf’s thrashing. The tether between them snapped and the spirit howled, massive and luminous red in the cave. Genos went slack in contrast, limp on the ground. The ghostly wolf then turned on its host, snapped jagged jaws with hunger in its eyes.

Saitama sprang up, shoved the beast away before it could sink its teeth into Genos. The wolf rolled away with a grunt, over the ledge to splash down in the pool. Saitama then scrabbled to his student’s side, shook his shoulder to stir him while the wolf picked itself up.

“Genos, get up!” he cried. The mage stayed prone where he lay, lips parted and glazed eyes almost closed. He failed to rouse, on the fringe of unconsciousness. He looked sick, frail, weak. Saitama shook him again, to no avail. “Genos, c’mon! _Fight_!”

A thick, dangerous growl drew his attention. The ghostly wolf stood down in the water with hackles raised, head low and ears pinned back. It leaped before he could blink, pounced over the shrine with claws outstretched. Saitama braced, rolled so that the beast’s own momentum carried it clean off him. Its claws snagged his leathers with a harsh tearing sound, but skimmed his skin like oil. The brute slammed against the wall of the chamber, roared loud to shake dust from the ceiling.

He straightened up, helped – _dragged_ – Genos to his feet. The mage clung to him, dazed and immobile, still wracked with pain. He was in no state to fight, limp as a newborn where Saitama supported him. As the wolf righted itself a second time, Saitama clenched his fists in the blond’s furs. Would the cure still work if _he_ was the one to defeat it?

A light touch at his wrist stopped that train of thought.

He looked down to find Genos conscious, if weary, weak-kneed in his arms. The mage shook his head, flesh knuckles white where he clutched the Nord’s leathers. There was a brightness to his eyes, something stubborn and resolute. He wriggled free before Saitama could speak, fell to all fours with a _thud_ that pierced the thunder of the spirit’s growls. Saitama knelt beside him, steadied him, troubled when Genos pressed a hand to his chest to keep him from acting. He watched the mage then raise his other hand toward the beast, shaky but determined.

Saitama assumed that he planned to launch some magical attack at the wolf. He was wrong. Genos instead flipped his hand over, palm-up, as if to invite the spirit closer.

The growls cut off, and the ethereal wolf’s ears flicked. It then let out a fierce noise, something confused and aggressive, and bounded forward. It dived at Genos, slammed into him with the force of a carthorse.

Instead of knocking him back, or passing through him like a ghost, the wolf burst into smoke against his chest. Genos doubled over with a grunt, streams of its energy rolling off him like crimson flames. Saitama caught him before he could crumple, throat tight as the blond sagged again in his grip. He lowered the mage to the floor, watched him twitch and gasp and grab urgently at his mentor’s forearms.

Saitama glanced about the chamber, unable to work out what had happened. The wolf was gone – back into Genos? He swept the blond’s fringe back, exposed a tortured expression on that young face.

It was different to before.

Blood gleamed on his lips and fingers, smeared on his bracer where he had wiped his mouth. He was paler than Saitama had ever seen him, clammy and shivering hard, as if in the grip of fever. A press of a palm to his forehead revealed quite the opposite, sweaty skin like ice even to Saitama’s touch. Something was wrong.

Saitama struggled not to panic. “Hey,” he urged, voice loud in the sudden stillness of the cavern. “Genos, hey. Look at me.”

The mage loosed a ragged sound, a groan bitten through clenched teeth. His neck jerked aside, eyes squeezed shut. With a cry, his back arched up from the damp floor – and he clutched Saitama’s forearm so tightly that the Nord felt an echo of pain. Genos cut off a wail, panting where he lay, tossed his head in distress. His body seemed to vibrate with it, stretched taut, fraying at the seams as he moaned.

_Something was wrong_.

Saitama swallowed hard. He gathered Genos up from the ground, lifted him with ease, and carried him at a jog out of the cave. He Shouted for Kahodnir the instant they were outside, and cradled the blond to his chest while he waited for the dragon to answer his summons.

On impulse, he pressed a kiss to Genos’s sweat-slicked temple. The mage did not seem to feel it, overwhelmed by agony. Saitama kissed him again, harder, poured his hopes and fears into it, as if the simple press of lips could convey the depths of his meaning. Curse Hircine, curse his ‘cure’. If this killed him, if Genos’s body could not handle the strain, Saitama would be having words with a certain Daedric Prince.

“Please,” he said, low and gruff. “C’mon, kid. Stay with me. You can do this.”

Perhaps he imagined it, but Saitama thought he felt Genos’s hand squeeze the front of his clothes a little tighter. Pressure built in his throat, and he threw back his head to Shout at the sky again. Rain splattered on his scalp, dripped from his nose to roll off Genos’s cheeks like tears.

“C’mon, damn it. I … I need you.”

The mage was unconscious before the dragon arrived.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uA7wTPR6lwc)
> 
> **Context notes** :  
> * **Lost Knife Hideout** is a sub-location within Lost Knife Cave, a stronghold of the Silver Hand. If the player has not begun the Companions questline, they will fight bandits here instead.  
>  * _Zul Mey Gut_ is the ‘Throw Voice’ Shout. Its individual words mean Voice, Fool, Far.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	13. The Winds of Change

*

 

Wind.

It roved over the field in which Genos lay, the sky stretched high above him. He felt it on his face, the wind, in his hair, like a lover’s caress. For a while, he simply lay and let it flow over him. He watched it gather up dandelion heads in eddies, and raised his hand to try and catch the seeds on their journey. They glanced off the metal of his palm, slipped through the unfeeling fingers, clumps of weightless white.

The grassland stretched for miles, as far as he could see, still and calm, faded at the edges. There were no clouds, no sun or moons or stars, only brilliant, boundless blue. A voice stirred in his memory, a word from his mother’s lips. _Cobalt_. Yes. She once told him this colour was ‘cobalt’, the colour of a midsummer sky. He heard birdsong, somewhere far, faint tweets and trilling. Bright flowers danced and swayed around him, brushed his skin, a colourful blanket under him.

He thought of nothing, at peace with the world, no worries or tension in his body. He was empty, open. Relaxed, tranquil in a way he had not felt since childhood. He closed his eyes, linked his hands atop his stomach. The breeze nudged at his cheek, soothing. It felt like a dream, undisturbed and pleasant.

A niggle poked at the back of his mind.

There was something he should be doing, somewhere else he should have been, but for the life of him, he could not remember.

Footsteps in the grass drew his attention, and Genos lifted himself from the peaceful fog. He rolled his head aside, grass rustling in his ear.

Framed against the blue, a girl stood over him. She was familiar, young, dressed in noble clothes and a beautiful grin, with golden hair and amber eyes. Genos snapped alert when he recognised her. He sat up and twisted to behold her, on hands and knees, mouth hanging wide.

“Kaiela?”

His sister’s smile widened, and she held out her arms.

Genos scrambled to embrace her, crushed her tight to his front where he knelt in the grass. She was so small, so young, so frail against him. His chest felt fit to burst, throat tight, shock and gratitude like hot needles in the roof of his mouth. She was _here_ , solid. He dared not question the impossible, was afraid to. His vision burned, breaths coming ragged as he held her. Kaiela hugged him back just as hard, her giggle soft music in his ears.

This was a dream. It had to be. As cruel, cold, bittersweet logic returned to him, Genos eased his grip and leaned back. He ached at the sight of her, of her loose curls and freckled cheeks. She tilted her head like a sparrow, sweet face creased by curiosity, still smiling.

He searched for his voice. “I do not understand,” he said, and clutched her tiny shoulders. He remembered the witches’ cave, the shrine and the wolf spirit. The _pain_. “Is this … am I dead?”

Kaiela pursed her lips. “That depends.”

Subconsciously, Genos stroked his thumbs along the seams of her sleeves. He did not feel real, separate from himself, like a shadow. “On what?”

His sister stepped back, raised her own hands to grip Genos’s and guide them down from her shoulders. She cupped them before herself, indifferent to the mismatched textures. She then tipped her head to beam at him, and a stray curl fell in front of her nose.

“On if you have found it or not.”

He frowned at her, confused. Before he could ask her meaning, Kaiela straightened up. She released one of his hands but tugged at the other, urged him to his feet. The mage obeyed, hunched to keep their fingers entwined, and allowed her to lead him forward.

“Come with me,” she said. “The others will want to see you.”

He blinked. “Others?” he said. His heart skipped a beat, heavy between his ribs. “Sabiel? Martte?” He swallowed hard. “Mother … Father?”

Kaiela pranced ahead, did not slow down when she glanced back at him. She all but glowed in the sunlight, vibrant and merry. “Everyone is here, except you,” she said. “Come on! They will be so happy to see you.”

Genos tottered in her wake, taken by the warmth of her small hand around his. He followed her without question, excited by the thought of seeing his family again. Excited, and nervous. What would they think of him? His choices? Father had never approved of his interest in Dwemer technology; what would he say, now that Genos had grafted part of one of their machines into himself?

Again, something tugged at the back of his mind – the sensation of _wrongness_ , of conflict, an insistent pull backward.

He should not be here.

Kaiela seemed to notice his reluctance. She stopped skipping, came to a halt in the grass, and turned back to peer up at him. The breeze swirled around them, carried petals and pollen past where they hesitated.

“Genos?”

The mage angled away, out across the field. Saitama’s face swam into his mind, that expectant look he wore whenever his apprentice called his name. Genos shook his head.

Where was Saitama?

The memory of his mentor, his _more-than-friend_ , centred Genos, shifted the scene into focus. Saitama was real, but he was not here. His sister, on the other hand, was here, but _she_ was not real. She could not be. She was dead, a ghost, an echo of innocence lost.

Genos was adrift, caught in some strange state of in-between, walking the line that split life from Aetherius.

As much as he longed to meet his family again, to hold them and apologise for all he had done, he wanted to see Saitama more. Without him, he knew Saitama would be alone. His heart stuttered at the thought, at the very notion of abandoning the Nord. He would never do such a thing. Could not. Genos was all Saitama had, in a world that failed to recognise his greatness.

Saitama needed him, his support and affection. He had to go back.

“I do not belong here,” he said. His tone came thick, conflicted, but firm. “I am … there is somewhere I must be. Someone I must return to.”

Kaiela peered up at him for a long moment, uncertain, hair lithe in the breeze. “Someone more important than family?”

Genos licked his dry lips. His fingers shifted, woven loose through his sister’s. He sank down to crouch before her, dropped to match her height. With his free hand, he carded through her fine hair. It was soft, like gossamer, smooth and strong. She leaned into his touch.

“ _He_ is my family now,” said Genos.

A furrow passed over Kaiela’s brow. Her expression then softened, brightened, and she squeezed his hand. There was meaning in her grip, love.

“You _have_ found it then,” she said. She laughed, the sound rushed with relief, and kissed his knuckles. “Your reason to live.”

Genos swelled with pride. “My master,” he said, without doubt. “He is a great man. Modest, kind, honourable. But … he is alone. No-one respects him, but me. He deserves all the praise in the world. Until he gets it, I will stand by his side.”

He felt sudden heat in the corners of his eyes, and drew Kaiela into another hug. He cupped the back of her head, breathed deep to relearn the scent of her. He had forgotten what she smelled like, what she felt like. The memories churned at his edges, spectres of cousins and parents and laughter.

“Forgive me.”

Kaiela squirmed like the playful child she used to be, and pressed a finger to his lips. “We will see each other again,” she said, “someday. For now … you have to go home.”

 _Home_. Genos thought on the word. Yes. Saitama was his ‘home’, now.

He rose, brushed loose clumps of grass from his furs. Before he could speak, Kaiela pointed to something over his shoulder. The mage turned, and was surprised to find a ghostly doorway suspended in the air behind him.

It hung without supports, grounded to the earth, joined to nothing. Ethereal, impossible. Sunlight hollowed out scuffs and scratches in the wood, caught the iron handle shaped like the head of a dragon.

Breath held, Genos reached out and touched a finger the handle. He expected it to be cold, but the metal seemed to have no temperature. He gripped it properly, steadied himself, and twisted it. A shaft of light poured through the crack, widened when he pushed open the door. Instead of the field behind, he saw nothing but brilliant white through the frame. The emptiness did not strike fear into him; it instead held promise, optimism, the heat and hope of the living.

Somewhere through it, he knew Saitama was there.

“Genos.”

He tore away from the strange doorway, back to his sister. Kaiela had not moved, other than to wrap her arms around her belly. Her stance held a tight mix of sadness and joy, loss and delight.

“Do not let us hold you back anymore,” she said. “Live your own life. Be happy.”

Genos swallowed hard. Waking up felt like betrayal, but he knew she could not come with him. Likewise, he knew he could not stay. He was alive, and she a figment of his dreaming mind. He nodded once, felt the breeze catch his fringe in the movement.

“I will.”

Without another word, he stepped through the threshold. The emptiness swallowed him up, and the door faded away behind him.

The other side glowed so bright that he closed his eyes to shield them, the burn of it sweeping through his whole body. When he opened them again, braced against the sting, a shape formed through the white. The flare faded as his vision adjusted, darkened into a thatched roof between sturdy support beams.

Genos stared up at it, at the lit chandelier made of goat horns. He was horizontal, the bed beneath him lumpy and hard. He heard rain on the roof, the strumming of a lute from another room, the groan of cows through thick walls. The stench of countryside filled his nostrils, rustic, wet earth and ale and wood.

He faced aside, saw an end table and empty chair beside the bed. A candle flickered atop the former, flame low and languid. The dry tang of its wax caught in his throat, tinged by the damp fur of a rug on the floor.

If his sense of smell was anything to go by, he still carried the beastblood. The thought neither made him want to laugh nor blanch, too tired to dwell in the revelation.

Disoriented, he slid his elbows back to prop himself up.

This was an inn, a public house he did not recognise. Through the lone doorway, across from the bed, he spotted an Imperial woman in the main room. She stood behind the counter, clad in tavern clothes, preoccupied with a book. Daylight poured in dusty shafts above her, the air musty and stale. Throat parched, dazed from sleep, Genos moved to sit up.

The world swayed around him, and he gripped the edge of the bed to steady himself. His sore muscles trembled with the effort, a hollow ache in his stomach. It felt like he had been unconscious a while. He rubbed a hand over his face, its cold metal invigorating on his skin, and pushed up to stand when he felt able to support his own weight. He pulled on his boots and crossed the room at a stagger, and stepped out into the main space of the inn.

Three men stood gathered around a bard, watched him pluck at a lute with tankards in hand. Genos took in the sight of them, of the fire pit and vacant tables, before he made his way to the counter. The woman there straightened up when she noticed him. More tankards cluttered the bar, cheese wheels and barrels of ale, dead rabbits and pheasants strung from the ceiling behind her.

“You’re up at last,” she said. She had a deep voice, for a woman, curved with a laugh as she grabbed a cloth to wipe down the counter. “Thank the gods. Your friend was real worried.”

Genos blinked around, head still fuzzy. “Where…?” His intent was to ask Saitama’s location, but his voice cracked and broke after a single word.

The Imperial gave a start. “Ah, right,” she said, misunderstanding his unfinished question. “This here is Dead Man’s Drink, in Falkreath. I’m Valga, the owner. Your friend stepped out about a half hour ago, said somethin’ about making himself useful. He worked himself up something fierce, hovering over you.”

The mage cleared his throat, frowned at its reluctance to work properly. “Saitama?”

Valga nodded. She continued to clean the countertop, a motion so practiced that she did not need to watch what she was doing. “Brought you in yesterday,” she said, “all pale and dead-lookin’. Gave us a scare, he did, bursting in here and yellin’ for a healer. I’m shocked there ain’t a trench in my floor, the way he paced.”

A peal of laughter from the tavern’s patrons caught Genos’s attention. The bard launched into song across the room, a melancholic ballad about dragons and heroes. When Genos faced the barmaid again, he did not bother to feign politeness.

“Where is he?”

“He went to help out at the lumber mill,” she told him. She stopped cleaning to lean on the counter, closer to Genos, tired of being on her feet.

This near, the mage noticed flecks of silver in her high hairline. Valga clearly noticed the same colour on Genos, as well: her expression shifted, dark with unease, and her eyes began to flit between his.

“Silver,” she murmured. “Say, are you…?”

When he realised why she was staring, Genos jerked a step back. So, people knew how to identify werewolves in this part of the country. “Thank you,” he said. He turned on his heel, and – before she could call to him – strode across to the tavern’s creaky exit and shoved outside.

Large raindrops splattered to the ground, heavy and persistent, the air dull with mist and fog. With his offset body clock, and a mantle of cloud overhead like premature evening, he had no idea what time it was. He heard the pounding of a hammer and welcome birdsong, the playful barks of dogs and chirps of grasshoppers. A young woman leaned on the fence just outside the inn, overlooking the weed-lined path that wove through the village.

Falkreath was a small settlement, rural and closed-in by trees and plant life. Genos took the steps down from the inn, saw the edge of town to the right. A single guard stood posted at the arch in the city wall, watching the forested road with hands on his hips. Instead, Genos turned left to head deeper into town. Valga said Saitama had headed to the lumber mill, but such knowledge did him little good in an unfamiliar place.

He passed a blacksmiths’ and many stacks of firewood, and stepped around a goat sat idle on the cobbles. Lush trees draped in ivy lined the path, sheared stumps and thistles, leaves aquiver in the rain. Genos kept straight at a fork, no clue where to go, passed slanted houses with tanning racks and woven fences. He saw a man working a potato farm, and followed the trail around the Hall of the Dead and down into a large graveyard.

Dozens upon dozens of tombstones peeped out through the weeds, too many graves to count. As he circled around the back of the Hall, he wondered why Falkreath held so many dead. He had never seen a cemetery of such size, even back in High Rock. He raked a hand through his hair, sodden fringe plastered to his forehead, and squinted about in search of anything that resembled a mill. The cold did not affect him, too set in his search for Saitama.

The graveyard made him think.

He had come close to death today. Yesterday? He shook his head. He had known Hircine’s trial might kill him, yet he went through with it anyway. Why? He stopped walking, and turned to the closest tombstone. It was small, unmarked, half-concealed by grass. Genos frowned down at it for a long while, absorbed in his thoughts.

He had been afraid to tell Saitama of his indecision. They had come so far, done so much for the sake of ‘curing’ his beastblood. For Genos to change his mind, to realise that perhaps he was on the wrong path … it felt like he had wasted his mentor’s precious time. He did not want to disappoint. Genos had chosen to go through the ritual to prove that he was serious – but was he?

Evidently not.

When the wolf spirit left him, he felt weak. He felt weak in the sense of exhaustion, yes – but also _frail_. He felt like less of himself without the beastblood, exposed and helpless and vulnerable. Being stripped of the wolf reinforced how much he had grown to depend on it – to appreciate it, even. It was gone for a moment but he wanted it back at once, missed it the instant it tore itself from his body.

He imagined he would have the same reaction to being robbed of his Magicka and spells, as if he had lost some vital part of who he was.

All the same, Genos did not see himself as an agent of Hircine. He was not indebted or aligned to the Lord of the Hunt, was not a slave or thrall. He merely recognised that his beastblood was helpful, acknowledged the strength it gave him. It was a tool he could make use of, a weapon with which to protect Saitama.

 _Saitama_.

The mage shivered, chilled by the thought of what he had done – of how the ritual could have ended. Had _almost_ ended. His body had survived Hircine’s trial, withstood the power and fury of the wolf as it bled its way back into him – but only just. If it had not been strong enough … if _he_ had not been strong enough….

Saitama would have been alone again.

Once, Genos had not understood why that thought hurt him so. He remembered his teacher’s voice, like a beacon as he lay and shuddered through the agony. Now, he knew.

Almost dying opened one’s mind to certain things, it seemed.

Through the hiss of rain, he heard the heavy _thud_ of a woodcutter’s axe. A dog yapped and the noise cut off, as if the canine were teasing the one at work. Genos dragged himself away from the grave and traced the sound, tracked it back to the potato farm. Beyond its fence, on the bank of a stream that cut through the village, he saw a tall mound of cut logs. Piles of firewood sat stacked against the fence, half-hidden behind a knot of bushes. The lumber mill stood farther ahead, against a backdrop of forest and a rugged cliff face.

Glistening in the rain, in the yard of the mill, he saw Saitama.

The Nord stood at a woodcutter’s block, axe in hand, grumbling as he tried to shoo off a shaggy grey hound that refused to leave him alone. The dog whined and scampered about, nipping at Saitama’s boots. He nudged it with one foot, pushed it away from the block, only for the mutt to pounce close again. It wanted to play, but Saitama was having none of it.

At the display, Genos felt himself unclench. He watched his teacher struggle with the dog, watched the endless rain roll off his scalp and nose and darken his leathers. A firm line set Saitama’s brow, worried and distracted. Something flipped in the mage’s chest, urged him closer, and he climbed the fence into the soaked yard.

The dog went still when it noticed him, focused on the blond with ears pricked. It then turned tail and ran, fled across the mill and disappeared between the houses.

Saitama, oblivious to his student’s presence, straightened up and scowled after it. He then shrugged his shoulders, and got back to work. He grabbed a log from the uncut pile, and set it upright on the chopping block. In a sharp snap of muscles, he swung the axe. Its head split the wood clean, into two even halves, and he set the kindling aside to chop another.

Genos watched him work a while, hypnotised. Saitama was a remarkable man, he mused, able to control his vast strength with such ease. The great wheel of the watermill churned in the river ahead, air filled with the patter of rain on rocks and saturated ground.

He lost track of time. After what must have been the tenth log, Saitama stepped back from the block and dragged a forearm across his wet brow. In the movement, he caught sight of Genos.

He froze, eyes comically wide, gawped as if the blond were a ghost.

Before Genos could speak, the axe slipped from Saitama’s hand. By the time it splashed to the ground, the Nord had already crossed the space between them and flung both arms around his disciple.

Genos tensed on instinct, then relaxed when he recognised the feel of hard muscle crushed around his middle. He brought his hands up Saitama’s back, pressed his cheek to his mentor’s. It felt good against his face, supple over sturdy bones.

“Oh, gods …” choked a voice in his ear. “Oh … oh gods, I thought–”

“I know,” he breathed out. He trailed fingers along Saitama’s spine, traced a circle over a rip in his leathers. “Please, calm down. I am fine. Forgive me for making you worry, master.”

A ripple seemed to jolt through Saitama, and he pulled back. He did not release the blond, however, but glanced down at himself in a panic. “Ah, sorry,” he said. “I’m all gross and sweaty, sorry….”

Genos did not hide the swell of fondness he felt at the words. When Saitama looked up again and caught his gaze, the youth’s smile seemed to knock the breath from him. Saitama focused, then, brown eyes pinched in a squint.

“It didn’t …” he said. “You’re still…?”

The mage dropped his silver stare. “Yes,” he said. He felt no shame, no regret. Had no reason to, here in his teacher’s arms.

Said grip tightened a little. “And, you’re okay with that?”

Genos met him, open and earnest. “Yes,” he said again. “For now.”

Saitama nodded, subtly, as if to himself more than Genos. He then unhooked his grip of his student, and stepped back. Genos felt cold without the contact of his body, flesh hyper-sensitive beneath his clothes where Saitama had touched him.

“How d’you feel?”

He glanced aside. The sounds of Falkreath flowed into him, precipitation and wildlife and calls of villagers as they worked the farm or mill. His sharp senses hovered over the warble of a thrush, attuned as its melody coloured the air. He rolled the taste of the rain over his tongue, breathed deep to take in the mist and fresh-cut wood and the sweet musk of Saitama’s scent.

He felt alive, alert. He felt content. At peace; calm, but expectant – eager to voice something once denied, something important. He met Saitama’s concern with sincerity. He felt grateful, indebted to this wonderful man. No … not indebted. Devoted, but not in the way an apprentice served his master. This was not servitude. He owed Saitama everything, and nothing. This was….

This was more.

This was _everything_.

 _Saitama_ was everything, to Genos. A tether to the world, a driving force. A light in the dark, a guiding star; a place that would always be safe, no matter what. He was a place to call ‘home’.

The rain trailed down Genos’s face, flicked at his lashes and caught in his brows. It flattened his furs, weighed them down, rolled unnoticed along his nose to gather on his chin. It passed from his lips to Saitama’s, flowed around where their mouths connected. It glanced off the Nord’s knuckles as he wound fingers into drenched blond hair, dripped from a metal elbow as the mechanical hand found its way to a splinter-flecked jawline.

Genos recalled that, once, he had wondered what Saitama’s lips felt like on his. They were not as soft as he imagined, not as yielding, pressed firm to his own. He tasted almost sour from hunger – no doubt he had not eaten in his worry – salty with sweat but fresh from the rain.

The fingers tightened in his hair, intent but not painful, an unfamiliar sensation. They tugged, pulled his head back, and Genos had no choice but to break the kiss.

It took him a moment to will his eyes open, breathless and abuzz with something like victory. When he focused, he was shocked to find fear on Saitama’s face. It was faint, an undercurrent, but _there_ , and it hurt to see the Nord so unsettled.

“You sure?” he said. He seemed to have forgotten how to blink, despite the weather. “About this … about _me_?”

When Genos frowned, Saitama’s nerves hardened.

“I could just be, I dunno,” he rushed, “projecting my loneliness onto you. I’ve been on my own for so long, I don’t know if I know the difference between friendship and … y’know. _More_.”

Genos cocked his head, still held captive, and the movement reminded Saitama to let go of his hair. Before the freed blond could protest his words, however, Saitama ducked to glower at the ground.

“I’m old,” he said, both to Genos’s disagreement and displeasure. “And bald. I’m lazy – I’ve screwed up or wasted every good thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re this smart, young, good-looking kid – and gods, yes, I’m attracted to you, and us becoming ‘more’ would be … so … but, a-are you _sure_? I don’t want you to feel like you _have_ to like me, or anything, ’cause you don’t. You don’t owe me anything, Genos. It’d be a dream come true if you really wanted this, but I wouldn’t blame you if you just–”

Genos followed his sister’s earlier example, and pressed a finger to his teacher’s lips. Saitama spluttered against it for a second, then let out a great gust of a sigh. He took loose hold of the blond’s wrist, and eased his hand away to speak again.

“It’s just …” he said. “You can do so much better than me.”

Genos scowled at him. He fought the impulse to shoot him down outright, chose instead to take his time and think up a more compelling answer. He let his own sightline drop, let his arms fall limp with no other clue what to do with them.

“I heard what you said, yesterday,” he said, over the play of nearby dogs and children. “When you carried me out of the cave, and called for Kahodnir, you said … you said that you needed me.”

Saitama tensed, swallowed hard. Genos shook his head.

“The ritual …” he said. “I thought I was dying. I _was_ , it hurt so much. But I heard you. I held on with all I had, because … because I thought, otherwise, I would not get another chance to tell you.”

Saitama’s nerves caught in his throat. He licked his lips, dry despite the rain, took in Genos’s faint-flushed cheeks and the way his hands clenched and slackened in rhythm. “Tell me…?”

Genos drew himself up. He steadied himself with a deep breath, balled his fists – but then relaxed, unwound. He sought out his teacher’s stare, held it, revealed his own nerves in the form of a tiny smirk.

“Of course I am sure,” he said. He reached out, hesitated, then pressed a palm to Saitama’s throat. The power it held, that mighty Voice, seemed to thrum beneath his fingers. He traced the lump of Saitama’s larynx, down to the collar of those battered leathers, watched how the skin rose like gooseflesh in his wake. “I would choose no-one else. No-one but you, mas- … Saitama. You have given me my life back, a second chance, so much more than I deserve. I would stay with you, if you will have me, until age or injury forces us apart. Because–”

He clamped his eyes shut, fought back the heat, curled his fingers over his mentor’s throat. No, not yet. He was not finished yet.

“Because … I love you, Saitama.”

It hurt. The relief when those words left him was so intense that it _hurt_ , breathtaking and fierce. He wanted to laugh, to give in to the tears that threatened to spill, to hide this man away and never let anyone harm him. He basked in the parting of Saitama’s lips, in the awe and shock and happiness he found there. He choked out a sound when Saitama gathered him up, sank into the embrace as those powerful arms coiled around him again.

Saitama did not know how to react.

Emotional confessions had never been one of his strengths. Then again, he supposed he already _had_ confessed – that night when Genos made his deal with Hircine. Still … his heart throbbed, too big, chest too small to contain it. He hugged the blond as hard as he dared, a blockage in his throat. He ought to answer, he knew, owed Genos some kind of response.

Love?

Not yet, surely. Love was too strong a word, so soon, but … it felt right. It encompassed everything Saitama wanted to say, summed up his feelings in a word too tiny and common to express as much as it did. He kissed Genos’s forehead, no need to hold back as he had yesterday. If the mage really wanted this, then there was no need to worry about making him uncomfortable. The rain hissed on around them, ignored, mirrored the downpour of emotion shared between two lost souls.

“Let’s …” he managed, mouth and nose buried in thick golden locks. “Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, okay? I mean, we just met a week ago.”

Genos made a disgruntled noise against his neck.

After a pause, Saitama pulled back. Whether the wetness on the mage’s face was just rain or a combination of it and tears, he would never know. “It’s funny, though,” he said. Against his better judgement, he traced a thumb under one of those striking silver eyes. “I feel like I’ve known you forever. Like … _forever_ forever. Is that weird?”

Genos thought a moment. He looked down, the muscle twitching under Saitama’s thumb, then back up with an intrigued expression. “Master,” he said, “have you heard of the Dreamsleeve?”

The Nord frowned. “Um, no.”

With measured slowness, to let his touch linger, Genos took a step to the side. He then jerked his head, a hint that he wanted to walk. Saitama followed him, confused, tailed him out of the lumber yard and onto the cobbled roads of Falkreath.

“It is a belief of my people,” said Genos, “the Bretons, regarding life after death. Unless your soul is claimed by the Daedra, you Nords go to Sovngarde when you die. This is common knowledge. Orcs go to the Ashpit, Redguards make their way to the Far Shores, Argonians become one with the Hist, and so on.”

“Oh?” said Saitama. Born and raised in Markarth, he knew little about other races – and even less of their beliefs. He and Genos walked side-by-side through the village, meandered in the general direction of the inn. They passed guards on patrol, children running with their dogs.

Genos tipped back his head, addressed the murky sky. Patches of sunlight tried to shine through, to pierce the mantle, clouds painted white and silver at the edges. “We Bretons have no specific afterlife,” he said. “So, we join with the Dreamsleeve. Your people might call it ‘Mundus’, the spiritual part of the world. A sort of … river of souls, which wraps around the planet. The Dreamsleeve cleanses our souls and pushes us back into the physical world, as new life.”

“So …” said Saitama, as the tavern came into view around a cluster of trees. “You’re reincarnated?”

Genos tore his gaze from the heavens, solemn, and nodded once. “Essentially, yes,” he said. “Some Bretons believe that the strongest bonds we form in life cannot be cleansed by the Dreamsleeve. They echo through time, eternal, transcending lifetimes.”

Saitama flinched when a raindrop hit him square in the nose, and broke off to wipe it away. “What’s this have to do with ‘us’?”

The blond came to a halt, fell still in the road. Saitama kept walking a moment, too busy wiping his cheek to notice that Genos had stopped. When he realised and turned back, he was struck by his disciple’s thoughtful air.

“You are Dragonborn,” said Genos. “Your soul is immortal, recycled as a hero through the ages. When you die, like me you are born again. It is possible that we _did_ know each other, in another life. Another ‘me’, another Dragonborn.”

Saitama considered this.                                                     

“Perhaps this is why we feel so close already,” Genos went on, “despite the short time we have known each other. Perhaps we _were_ close, once, in a previous life … and our souls almost remember.”

Saitama crossed his arms. “Could that …” he said. His voice shook, raw as he latched onto the possibility. “Could that really happen? _Have_ happened?”

Genos hummed. “Who knows,” he said. He set a hand on his hip, and looked to the inn. He seemed shy, almost, longing. “I would like to think that I will never lose you, even after the end. It is … a comforting notion.”

The rain began to ease, smaller droplets splattering to the ground. Saitama hooked a hand around his nape. “But, if you’re still … y’know,” he said. “If you’re a werewolf, Hircine gets your soul. You won’t go to the Dream-thing. You’ll go to his Hunting Grounds, and be stuck there forever.”

Genos faced him. “I know,” he said. His brow twisted, warmth fading into melancholy. “But there is time. I wish to stay as I am, for now. It does not matter how long I carry the beastblood. As long as I cleanse it before my time comes, he cannot claim me. I have no plans to die a wolf.”

“Good,” said Saitama. He ran his thumbs over his own fingernails, rocked on the balls of his feet. Why was it so difficult to voice his feelings, now that he knew they would not be shot down? “Good. ’Cause, y’know, if you’re right about the whole reincarnation thing … I’d sure like to see you again, after the end.”

Genos reached out and kissed him, the contact quick and light. It was over before Saitama could reciprocate, and then their foreheads were pressed flush. He peered into the mage’s eyes, open and bright in a way he had not noticed before.

“I would like that very much, as well.”

The smile that bloomed on Saitama’s face came naturally, unbidden, pure and honest. He could not remember the last time he had worn such a thing, felt it stretch his lips and crease his cheeks.

Enough talking about the ‘next life’, he thought. He wanted to focus on _this_ life, on what they had _now_ , to savour the miracle as best he could. _Genos liked him back_. The grin grew broader. Nothing could dampen his mood – not the rain, not an army of frost trolls, not even a visit from the World Eater himself.

Saitama did not know if he believed Genos’s theory about past lives and echoes – but, he found it did not matter. The past, the future … they were not important right now. Right now, he had every intention to enjoy the present.

Without shame or doubt, he reached forward and linked a hand with his student’s mechanical one. Genos jumped at the contact, startled by such forward affection, but relaxed when Saitama gave him a light, reassuring squeeze.

“You hungry?” he said.

Genos’s shoulders fell slack, sank from where they had risen halfway to his ears. He let out a laugh, short and low, and squeezed back. “Famished.”

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [♫](https://youtu.be/A_Yllu0alZU)
> 
> An IRL friend of mine suggested that I actually kill Genos. “One gut-Punch Man”, he said. I refused. You’re welcome.
> 
>  **Context notes** :  
> * Aside from **Sovngarde** , the Asgard-esque afterlife of the Nords, not much is known about life after death in the Elder Scrolls universe. I based Genos’s explanation on [this post](http://tamrielfoundry.com/topic/afterlife-of-races/) on the Tamriel Foundry, because it struck a chord with my own beliefs on reincarnation. The ‘bonds transcending lifetimes’ was my personal twist, because I’m a huge sap.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long ride, folks. Thank you for sticking with me.  
> If you don't want the adventure to end, check out [_Shadowmarks_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8447335/chapters/19353253), the sequel to this story!

*

 

Thunder ripped through the sky, tore the heavens asunder at the call of Saitama’s mighty Voice. Undead Draugr fell left and right, struck down by the storm, screeching as they tumbled from the lofty roof of Skuldafn.

Unreachable by normal means, Alduin called Skuldafn his refuge. The ancient temple sat high in the mountains that split Skyrim from Morrowind, the ancestral home of the Dark Elves. Here, Alduin hid his portal to Sovngarde – the Nordic afterlife, and the place where the accursed World Eater fled to lick his wounds.

At long last, however, the Dragonborn was catching up to him. The hunt for Alduin had finally led Saitama here, where he and his apprentice fought a path through the temple and its guardians. They cut down waves of undead warriors and mages alike, and climbed the maze in search of the dragon’s portal.

The couple bickered every step of the way.

Two Deathlords crowded in once they reached the snow-flecked roof. Saitama punched the closest Draugr aside, and tossed the other clean off the building. With a sigh, he leaned out to watch the rotten creature plummet down the mountain and through the mist below.

He adjusted his rucksack. “Absolutely not.”

Genos stepped closer to Saitama, away from the doors to the temple’s lower levels, his brow knit and troubled. He wrinkled his nose against the stench of decayed flesh. “It need not be a large affair,” he reasoned.

“Good,” said Saitama. “I don’t wanna make a big deal of this.”

Genos’s face fell, as if he had other wishes.

An arrow whizzed between them, and Saitama jerked back. Five more undead were present on the rooftop, scattered across broken pillars and precarious bridges, all armed and angry. Before he could Shout them off the roof, a fork of lightning struck the archer and knocked her over the edge.

Saitama turned. This bolt had come not from the raging sky, but from Genos’s outstretched hand. The force of the spell had blown back the mage’s fair hair, rumpled his furs and twisted the necklace around his throat. Power crackled at his fingertips, bright and loud above the thunder and wind and undead growls.

“What about Calcelmo, then?” said the blond, tone cool despite his dramatic pose.

Saitama frowned, likewise unconcerned by the battle. “Calcelmo … that old, Dwemer-obsessed scholar in Markarth?” he said. When Genos nodded, the Nord asked, “Why?”

The ignored throng of Draugr lumbered closer, weapons raised. One spat a threat in dragon tongue. Genos eyed them impatiently. With a flourish, the mage then flung out both hands.

Lightning exploded from his palms. It arched and leaped across the roof, a vicious stream without end, scorched the stone and licked at Saitama’s skin where it glanced off him. The attack staggered their foes with a sizzling sound, pushed them back, kept the Draugr out of their conversation.

“I owe Calcelmo much,” said Genos, calm even as he continued to repel the undead. He spoke as if at rest, voice raised over the roar of magic. “He donated the Dwarven Sphere for my replacement arm. I wish to invite him, if it pleases you.”

Saitama set his fists on his hips. “It does _not_ ,” he shot. He did not flinch when one of the weaker Draugr crumpled to the ground beside him, scorched to a second death.

Genos’s expression hardened, the current still surging from his fingertips. Its light flickered harsh across his sharp features, highlighted his displeasure. “Is there a particular reason why you are being difficult?”

Saitama choked on charged air. “I’m not!” he said. “You’re just making bad suggestions. Look – that guy sent me into a ruin full of giant frostbite spiders, once. I’m _not_ having him at our wedding!”

With a scowl, Genos ceased his spell. Its glow fizzled out and the three Draugr left standing all stumbled, charred and dazed. Genos then stepped around Saitama, and – without breaking stride – conjured two powerful atronachs from Oblivion. Both Daedra churned with the fury of the tempest above, made not of fire but rock and electricity.

While the bulky demons surged forward to fight the last of the Draugr, Genos straightened his amulet.

Saitama felt himself relax at the sight of it, of its carved bronze discs and brilliant blue-green gems. He almost chuckled, still not quite able to believe that _Genos_ had been the one to propose.

He recalled the moment with fondness, and a pinch of embarrassment.

Two days ago, in the depths of Blackreach and their hunt for the Elder Scroll, he had spotted the silly thing around the blond’s neck. Saitama knew that he was not the most observant of people, so could only guess how long Genos had worn it before he noticed. Genos had been quick to catch him staring, and met Saitama’s eye in that serious way of his.

Before the blond could speak, Saitama had blurted for him to take the pendant off. “You _do_ know what that thing is, right?!”

Genos had glanced down to where the pendant rested on his collar, one eyebrow raised. “It is an Amulet of Mara, master,” he said, matter-of-fact. “I understand that the people of Skyrim wear them when they wish to marry the one they love.”

Saitama could only gawp at him in reply, at first too dumbstruck to speak.

He looked at Genos now, at the young man who had known nothing but pain and loss until last month’s chance meeting. One month might have seemed like a brief courtship to some – but in Skyrim, life was harsh and short. Its people cared little for long engagements, their love earnest and deep.

Saitama took a moment to simply observe, to watch the blond and his thralls bring the Draugr to their knees. Genos had grown much in their time together, he mused, and not just in the acceptance of his lycanthropy. A few weeks at the College of Winterhold had nurtured his magic, taught him powerful new spells and the discipline to use them. He felt a swell of pride, admiration of his pupil – no, his _lover_.

He still questioned it, sometimes, wondered if he were dreaming some wonderful fantasy. Genos was too good to be true, yet he was _his_.

The ground shook, a familiar guttural cry in the wind. Saitama snapped his gaze upward, annoyed but unsurprised to watch a green-brown dragon soar overhead. He slipped back into combat stance, and called out the words of Dragonrend. This new Shout, shown to him by the Elder Scroll, forced the massive reptile to land before him, where it soon fell to the Nord’s fists. A second dragon circled high above, and Saitama felt its fierce eyes on him as he absorbed its brethren’s soul.

Once Genos blasted the final Draugr off the walkway, he straightened up. “I beg that you reconsider inviting Calcelmo to the ceremony,” he said, and clapped dust from his hands. The metal limb rattled with each impact, perhaps to emphasise his point. “It would mean a great deal to me.”

Saitama groaned, bothered by Genos’s reluctance to let the matter drop. The Nord did not want a huge wedding. He envisioned a small ceremony, modest, with a handful of people whom he knew and trusted – and Saitama did _not_ trust Calcelmo. The man’s sanity was questionable, at best, living underground and nose-deep in Dwemer culture. Then, there was also the fact that Saitama once broke into the old man’s laboratory in his time with the Thieves Guild … but he saw no reason to mention this to his fiancé.

The Nord kept his fists balled while Genos fired spells up at the second dragon. When the winged beast crashed down to the roof, bloodied and snarling, Saitama landed the final blow and claimed its soul as well.

Alone at last, with the tempest dwindled to a light snowfall, the couple made their way across the roof to a tall, steep set of steps. Beyond them, at the flat peak of the temple, a column of light stretched toward the sky. Saitama had never seen anything like it, white-gold and dazzling in its radiance, like a beacon on the mountaintop.

This must be Alduin’s portal to Sovngarde, he thought, too strange and beautiful to have been crafted by mortal hands. Genos scaled the steps ahead of him, unease on his face, atronachs trailing behind.

They climbed to a level stretch of stone, edged by angular archways and carved Nordic columns. Ahead, just before the ethereal pillar of light, a shorter set of steps formed the front of a raised dais. Some kind of carved spear or staff stood proud in a slot in the dais, its head serpentine and somehow regal. The light was _loud_ , a dull roar like hurricanes or fire, flowing up into the heavens.

One final Draugr hovered between it and the travellers: a masked Dragon Priest.

The Priest whirled away when it spotted them, turned to float up the steps to the dais. As Saitama watched, resigned, the Priest seized the staff and yanked it from its pedestal. It then wheeled back around and screeched, ready to fight.

While his atronachs fanned out, Genos crossed his arms. “I do not see the fuss,” he said. He spoke under his breath, a touch of spite in his voice. “Calcelmo is a perfectly reasonable guest … unlike some on _your_ list.”

The atronachs swept forward to engage the Priest. Saitama, meanwhile, faced Genos with indignance. “Hey,” he said. “If you can invite Colette Marence, I can invite Paarthurnax.”

Genos sniffed. “Colette is my Restoration tutor,” he said, aloof. “She also speaks highly of you in the College, a respectable woman. She has earned a chair at our wedding.”

“And Paarthurnax is my … Voice … tutor,” said Saitama, all but oblivious to the flashes and shrieks from the atronachs’ battle. “He deserves–”

“Saitama,” Genos spoke over him. The Nord faltered. His partner’s expression was firm, lined with exasperation. “Paarthurnax is a _dragon_. Even if he were small enough to fit inside the temple, I doubt the other guests would approve.”

Saitama conceded the point.

Both men glanced up when the atronachs crumbled, defeated. The Priest turned its masked face toward their summoner and his teacher, its withered body afloat and taunting. Saitama noticed that the column of light had faded, the portal closed with the staff removed. Shoulders low, he hooked a hand around his nape.

“All _right_ ,” he said, “okay. I don’t really like it, but the creepy old Altmer can come.”

Genos stepped closer, and brushed his smiling lips against his mentor’s cheek. “Thank you, master.”

With a flutter in his chest, warmed by the kiss, Saitama strode forward. “You’ve gotta stop calling me that when we’re married.”

Genos smirked. “Perhaps.”

Once the Dragon Priest lay punched to dust on the ground, Saitama crouched to collect its staff from the ashes. He weighed the thing in his hands, traced the nicks and grooves in its metal. Genos stood off to one side, atop the circle of ground where the light had shone, watching him. With a decisive breath, Saitama climbed up onto the platform. The staff sank into its slot without resistance, and the floor under Genos’s feet cracked in a vortex of shattered stone. Genos scrambled aside as the ground opened up; it fell away, formed a chasm of blue-purple energy. Rock shards swirled within, like a whirlpool, and beams of gold bled through to stain the sky once more.

The portal thrummed with power, its depths like rising flames, the air around it bristled with static. Saitama hopped down from the dais, and strolled to Genos’s side to watch the spectacle together. Where Genos’s face smoothed with wonder, however, Saitama felt no awe. Instead he felt anticipation, the promise of a good fight.

This was it. This was the day he faced Alduin.

He drew himself up. He did not doubt his own strength: he could do this, could defeat Alduin. After years of dodging fate, he would save the world today.

Cold fingers wove between his own, squeezed his hand in a hard grip. Saitama glanced aside, enthusiasm stilled, and met the wary eyes of Genos. The mage fixed him with a look that held both worry and reassurance, smile gone.

“Are you certain that I cannot come with you?” he said.

Saitama leaned over the youth’s broad shoulder to return the kiss. The blond’s lips rasped dry under his own, and tasted of fear. He felt awful for worrying Genos, but it could not be avoided. “Yeah,” he said, gruff. “It’s Sovngarde. Y’know, the Nord _afterlife_? I’m Dragonborn, but your soul’s mortal – if you go with me, you might not be able to come back. I won’t risk that.”

Something anxious lanced across Genos’s face. He looked pained, and his grip of Saitama’s hand tightened as they faced each other square-on. His breath ghosted hot against the Nord’s mouth, their noses almost touching while snow danced around them. “And how will you return?”

Saitama looked away. “I dunno yet.”

Genos cupped his teacher’s chin, forced him to face forward. The mage’s eyes burned, silver stars under a heavy brow. Saitama flashed him a grin, touched by his concern, and raked through those soft blond locks.

“Oh, stop it,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Nothing can keep me away from you. I’ll find my way back, and then we’ll have the biggest, most ridiculous wedding you want. Invite everyone.”

For a second, Genos brightened. He then dropped his head and raised his hands, and began to smooth down the front of Saitama’s leathers. “You have the healing potions I brewed for you,” he said. Saitama’s heart sank at the crack in his voice. “Use them, if needed. Remember to stay vigilant. Do not allow that monster to catch you off-guard.”

Saitama gripped the blond’s wrists gently, and pulled his hands away. “Stop fussing, I’ll be _fine_ ,” he said. He stooped to catch Genos’s gaze, and nodded once. “Go on, Kahodnir’s waiting. He’ll fly you outta here. Lie low with the Companions, and when I’m done, I’ll come pick you up. We’ll go see a priest about this wedding.”

Before he could say another word, Genos threw his mismatched arms around him.

Saitama stood there a moment, startled by the embrace. Genos hugged him hard, buried his face in the older man’s shoulder. When he found his senses, Saitama eased his arms around the mage and melted into him. Genos was warm, smelled of pinewood and hope and home, body hard and strong against his front. Holding him like this, Saitama did not want to let go.

“Wait for me, okay?” he said, his partner’s furs and hair tickling at his lips. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Crushed to his chest, he felt Genos heave a sigh. “I know,” came the muttered reply. There was a rustle as Genos nestled deeper, a quake as he choked out a laugh. “I know that a league of a thousand dragons cannot harm you. But … I worry.”

Saitama stretched on tiptoe to kiss the crown of his head. “Don’t.”

They pulled apart, hands lingering. Saitama stepped back first; he straightened the straps of his rucksack, and made to march for the churning portal. Genos hesitated, allowed him to move three paces before dashing forth and seizing his teacher’s arm again. He pulled the Nord in for one final kiss, long and slow and riddled with promise, and tore himself away with rumpled hair.

“I love you,” he said, eyes alight. “I am yours, always.”

Colour bloomed in Saitama’s ears, and he shook his head. “Love you too, you big sap,” he said. He raised a hand, and waggled his fingers in a wave. “See you soon.”

He turned around, faced the column of light that pierced the snowy sky like a ribbon of golden fire. With a steadying breath, and quick rub of the hands, he strode forward.

It would not do to keep Alduin waiting.

 

*

 

_End of Part One_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story continues in [_Shadowmarks_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8447335/chapters/19353253), Part Two of this AU.
> 
> [♫](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_sZYjWPJ2PQ)
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> [Tumblr](https://toastycyborg.tumblr.com/)


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